


Rain of Broken Things

by Iomhar



Series: Alternate Universe Hunger Games [9]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Blindness, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, District 5 (Hunger Games), Gen, Hunger Games worldbuilding, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mental Health Issues, Original Arena(s) (Hunger Games), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Therapy actually happens, Trauma, Worldbuilding, these tags are terrible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 49
Words: 115,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28974714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iomhar/pseuds/Iomhar
Summary: Elijah Asher, Panem's only blind victor, loathes his fellow District 5 victors.  So much, in fact, that he will do anything to bring his tribute, James, to victory so that he is no longer alone with them.  And James has a chance at this - provided the nation does not write him off as worthless.Part I (Ch 1-49) - The Hunger GamesPart II (Ch 50-?) - UnderstandingThis is part of my alternate universe Hunger Games series.  There is no specific reading order.
Series: Alternate Universe Hunger Games [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886524
Comments: 269
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Here are a couple of notes:
> 
> \- "Rain of Broken Things" is a stand-alone novel in my series. It will give spoilers for a previous work, "The Illusion of Life" but it is not assumed that everybody has read it. If you do not want spoilers, I recommend reading "Illusion" first. If you really don't care, then please enjoy this current work as its own entity.
> 
> \- The main character, Elijah, was blinded in the arena during the 133rd Hunger Games. He is still blind. I have done a moderate amount of internet-based research for blindness but I might make mistakes. Feel free to politely call me out if I have anything factually incorrect about being blind (and give me sources so I can correct myself). However, be aware that certain social norms, beliefs, technologies, etc. that we hold in the real world may differ from what is done in my AU Panem.
> 
> \- Horrible things happened to Elijah during his Hunger Games and will be referenced in this work. Please pay attention to tags if you're concerned about sensitive topics. I try to flag chapters that I feel would be most problematic (and provide a tl;dr at the end), but be aware that many of the things mentioned in the tags might be discussed/referenced casually throughout the story without explicit warning. I may also add more tags as this story goes along. Some stuff might be vague at the beginning as I try not to give to much exposition, but will become more obvious as the story progresses.
> 
> Now that all that's said, I really hope you enjoy this! Please comment if that's your thing - I love to hear from people and know that folks are reading my work.

I only have a few minutes to say goodbye to my family before I need to catch up with my co-mentor on the train. The 136th Hunger Games have begun with today’s reaping, and this is the last moment of peace I get before I’ll be launched into the annual child-murdering extravaganza. Once, not too long in the past, I said my goodbyes to my family and friends knowing that I would never come home alive. Now I know that I will be returning home to them, and yet I can’t escape the fear that transports me back in time to my own reaping three years ago. My heart thumps and I try to suppress the creeping anxiety by focusing on the light summer breeze that rustles the leaves of a nearby tree. The cameras have long gone, and the crowds have started to disperse. Once the tributes have been chosen, there’s no reason for anyone to be here, so I have relative privacy for the time being.

A few minutes to gather my wits before I’m thrust back into the bloodshed.

My wife and my brother should have been here by now. As family of a victor, they get priority seating at the reaping so they don’t have to deal with the crowd. I wait to the side of the stage in an open area where they can see me well enough, and I strain to hear any sound of them. I shift from foot to foot, trying to calm the uneasiness within me.

“I think they abandoned you, Elijah,” comes the voice of my co-mentor, Solar. I jerk at the sudden sound which only earns me a small laugh. Damn, I thought she had gone on without me and given me a few minutes of silence. My thoughts must have clouded my ears if she had been able to sneak up on me. She moves into my personal space and I feel her warm breath on my skin as she adds, “But at least you have me here to support you.”

Solar’s voice is silky and enticing, but the words that accompany the soothing tone are always contradictory. Derisive. Cruel. Even when she says something seemingly harmless, there’s an edge that lies just beneath her words to remind you of how dangerous she can be. I swallow back the jolt of fear that sizzles through me and remind myself that she can do nothing to harm me anymore.

“Well consider me relieved,” I reply with heavy sarcasm to mask the uneasiness that I had allowed her to sneak up on me.

“I think we’re going to enjoy ourselves this year,” she says with a smile in her voice. Her breath brushes against my skin. “We make a very good team, you and me.”

No we don’t. I suppress the urge to shy away from her and hold my ground.

“Funny,” I say. “When I used to play soccer, I don’t remember trying to kill my teammates because I got bored with the game.”

“You still hold that against me, hmm?” she asks, her voice uncomfortably close to my ear.

But of course I do. Mentors aren’t supposed to try to murder their tributes. I can still smell the distinct almond scent that wafted from the small vial of poison she sent me as a sponsorship ‘gift’ while I lay dying in the arena. It wasn’t not meant to relieve my pain but to rid her of her responsibility to me.

I don’t humor her question with an answer. She knows well enough that I will never forgive her for that. Just as I will never forgive her for the things she did to me in the time following my victory.

“I want the girl this year,” she says, switching the topic.

“You aren’t going to give me a chance to review the reaping?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. Now I do move away from her, but only slightly so that I can no longer feel her warm breath on my cheek. But the scent of her perfume still floods my nostrils.

If Solar were anything close to a decent human being, she might have given me a chance to learn more about the tributes who, at this point, are nothing more than names to me.

“Oh, no, I want this one,” she answers. “She looks good. I think I’ll have fun this Hunger Games.”

In other words, she’s looking forward to torturing the female tribute. My stomach lurches at the thought of the hateful things she’s told tributes in the past, myself included. She amuses herself with taunting her charges, playing mind games with them and assuring them that they have no chance of survival. I tighten my grip on my cane and force myself to remain calm. I may no longer be her tribute, but she still likes to get a rise out of me by pushing me until I snap. Which isn’t hard to do, admittedly, but I won’t take her bait right now. I’ll play along with her game.

“Fine, I’ll mentor the male tribute,” I answer. I loosen my handhold on my cane and shift my stance. But nothing makes me comfortable when I’m in Solar’s presence. She has once again taken advantage of the situation in order to gain the upper hand. She won’t give me the chance to review the tributes for myself because she knows that she can use my blindness against me and there’s nothing I can do about it. There may be no real advantage in claiming the female tribute before I have a chance to check out our options anyway, but she doesn’t want me to know that.

There’s no fairness in dealing with Solar just as there is no fairness in the Capitol.

If there was any hint of fairness, I would no longer be blind. They would have replaced my eyes after they were gouged out in the arena. But despite the Capitol’s medical technology, my vision was never restored. I was told it wasn’t _natural_. Complete bullshit. They replaced missing teeth with synthetic material. They repaired fractured bones with metal rods. They transplanted damaged organs. None of that is natural either, but that wasn’t the point.

The point was to ensure that I live my life as uncomfortably as possible. My reward for living when I shouldn’t have. And with Solar as my neighbor and fellow victor, the Capitol’s plans to keep me miserable seem to be working in many regards. She enjoys taking advantage of my blindness whenever it suits her purposes, and all I can do is try to keep her from seeing how damned angry she makes me.

“You’re so quiet,” she comments. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m waiting for Marie and George,” I say even though I’m sure she knows that already. “And I wouldn’t mind if you get lost in the meantime.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want me to leave you alone, would you?” she tries. She just wants to wheedle her way under my skin so that I’ll be thrown off and either be distracted when saying my goodbyes or botch up my initial meeting with my tribute.

I tap the end of my cane into the grass.

“Don’t you have anyone to say goodbye to? Oh, wait, you don’t,” I say. A low blow considering that her family is either dead or out of town, and she has no friends since nobody in their right might would want to be around her anyhow.

“Hmm, you’re funny,” she says. “But I do need to get ready for my tribute. I’ll see you on the train.”

She doesn’t wait for me to say goodbye before she turns and walks away. I listen to the sound of her retreating footfall. I’ll never know if she vanished entirely or if she stands off in the distance watching me, but I’ve learned that I can’t let myself focus too much on that.

Another damned year with Solar. We barely speak despite living on the same street, and that’s how I’d like to keep it. She was my mentor, and the year following my victory, she ‘helped’ me mentor my first tribute. It was a fruitless endeavor, and both District 5 tributes were killed early on. She made sure to let me know that it was okay that I had failed to keep my tribute alive. What I would give to push her off the moving train and get away with it.

Footsteps break me from my thoughts, and I listen to the voices of my wife, Marie, and my little brother, George, as they approach. They keep their words to themselves. I strain to hear what they’re saying and realize that they’re not talking about me or about the Hunger Games at all; rather, George is assuring Marie that he’ll make something good for dinner and that she doesn’t have to worry about it.

“Hey, Eli,” Marie says as she approaches where I wait to the side of the stage. Her voice is light despite the circumstances, but it cracks ever so subtly. A mask she wears as she tries to not burden me with her own concerns of the approaching Hunger Games. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Marie needed to pee,” George adds.

“Shush, you don’t need to tell the world,” she chides him. But then she’s wrapping her arms around my neck, and I hold her close. Or as close as I can get. She guides my hand down to her swollen abdomen and whispers, “She was kicking my bladder so much I almost couldn’t make it through the reaping.”

I grin at her comment because ninety percent of the pregnancy thus far has been Marie complaining that she has to use the restroom and it’s gotten a bit ridiculous at this point. Any time we go anywhere, we need to make sure there’s a toilet close by. It’s become something of a joke, and I realize I was kind of stupid to not think that the delay to meet me here was for this reason.

But the happiness I feel vanishes as though it’s been sucked out of my body when I remember why we’ve met here. The Hunger Games. Dying kids. Resurfaced memories. Time away from the few people I care about.

I don’t want to leave her. The baby won’t be born until well after I return, but the thought of leaving Marie while I go off to the Capitol tore me apart for the weeks leading up to the reaping, and now that it’s here, I can’t stop the frantic worry that something is going to go wrong. It shouldn’t; the doctors have given her a clean bill of health time and time again. But I should be here for her and not running off to the Capitol, duty or not.

My fingers linger on Marie’s stomach but there’s no movement at this time.

“I think she just couldn’t stand Wilton’s voice and wanted out of there,” I joke as I try not to let my own concerns weigh down our goodbyes.

Marie laughs. “Can’t blame her,” she says.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to tell you about the tributes,” George butts in. His voice is quiet. But in the softness is urgency. Since I can’t see the tributes, I rely on information provided to me. The Capitol will give me a narrated recap of the reaping, complete with descriptions of the tributes, but that won’t be until an hour or two from now, and I’ll be meeting the tributes sooner than that.

“Go on,” I say. I release my hold on Marie but keep one arm around her waist.

“The female tribute is about fourteen or fifteen. She’s about 5’3” and relatively athletic, but she looks really freaked out,” my brother says. “She was crying pretty badly but trying to hold herself together.”

No wonder Solar wanted her. Nice terrified little tribute to torture. Anger flares up within me, but Marie puts her head on my shoulder and I find that the anger dwindles, if only a little. I tighten my hold on her.

George continues, “The male tribute is sixteen-ish. He’s about 5’8” and was a little more reserved. Average build. Wasn’t crying. Both of them were polite to each other when they shook hands.”

“Sounds pretty typical,” I comment.

Most tributes don’t make a big deal about getting reaped, aside from crying of course. They tend to hold themselves together until the reality of the situation hits them, and then they’re a complete mess. The ones last year—

No, I have to think about this year.

“Aye,” George responds. “Do you know which one you’re mentoring?”

“The male,” I say. James Faraday. Only a name and now a vague description.

George thinks for a moment and says, “His clothing was a little too big for him, like he was wearing his older brother’s clothes. He has a few bandages on his right hand—I saw it when they went to shake.”

“Thank you,” I say to my brother. He’s only seventeen—barely older than the tributes this year—but I rely on him way more than I ought to. No kid should have to support his older brother as much as George does, but he very rarely complains about it. Since the moment I returned from the Capitol after my victory, he has been eager to fill me in on the things that I miss. His observations are almost always accurate and he has a keen sense of understanding people that I never had, not even before I was blinded. 

My time is running out. The tributes won’t be getting to the train quite yet, but I need to make sure that I’m there first so that I can greet them when they arrive.

“George, call me if you need anything. Take care of Grandpa and Marie—” (Marie scoffs at this) “—and try not to stress too much.”

“Will do,” he says. We’re falling into a routine now. I go to the Capitol, he manages things at home in my absence. I don’t think that Marie needs to be looked after, but if left to her own devices, she’ll do more than what she should be doing. Last week I found her bleaching one of the bathtubs because she was bored.

My brother gives me a brief hug and then steps back.

“I’ll give you guys a minute,” he says. “See you, Elijah.”

His footsteps retreat, and I turn back to Marie.

“I mean it. Call me if you need anything,” I insist.

“Eli, don’t worry about me. We’ll be fine. And you know that neither George nor Grandpa Asher are going to let me out of their sight,” she assures me. I feel her lips against mine and I kiss her. When our lips part, she says, “But if there is any issue, I’ll let you know.”

“Okay,” I say.

Her fingers run along my beard for a moment before her hand drops away and rests on my shoulder. Unspoken words linger between us. Reminders of Hunger Games past and what I have to face in the Capitol. And what she has to face here in District 5 alone. Without me. But we can’t speak of this now because words will do no good. I have to mentor, and I can only hope that with the company of George, Grandpa, and the dog Marty, she and the baby will be able to get through it.

“I know I can’t say much to comfort you right now, but take care of yourself,” she whispers to me. “And if you need to talk, please call me.”

“Thank you,” I answer. But I know I never will. Mentoring is my burden to deal with, and I don’t wish to share it with anyone. Not because I don’t want to but because I know that I can’t. Even someone as intelligent as Marie would never be able to understand what it entails, and she’d be horrified to know what I have to endure. “I have to go.”

Yet I don’t let her go right away. I press my forehead against hers and breathe. Marie is smart and capable. As long as she doesn’t go stir crazy, she’ll be fine here, and she has George and my grandfather to watch over her. I tell myself that maybe it’s even for the best that I’m leaving so she can get away from my neurosis for a few weeks.

“I love you, Eli,” she says.

“I love you, too,” I answer. I don’t want to leave her but I have my obligations to my tribute. I finally release her and take a step back. Her fingers linger on my sleeve for a moment longer before she lets go. I pause for only the briefest of moments before I turn and head towards the train.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 01/29/2021. I didn't like the way it flowed so I did some minor editing to narration and dialogue to make it smoother. No major changes in plot.


	2. Chapter 2

The victors of District 5 are dysfunctional. You wouldn’t know that by the way we conduct ourselves in public, but there’s a long history of absurdity and cruelty that bind us together. It emanates from the very foundations of the mansions they built us, and despite our attempts, we cannot escape it.

There are three of us victors now. Benjamin won the 79th Hunger Games and Solar won the 114th Hunger Games. Both of them have decided that I will mentor every year which allows them to take turns to fill the second position. My requests to sit out this year went unheard. Or, rather, they didn’t care. Year after year they saw kids off to the arena, and year after year they returned emptyhanded. Benjamin doesn’t say much about it, but Solar assures me that they’ve earned a bit of a reprieve and that my wife will be just fine for the few weeks I’m in the Capitol. She tells me that I’ll understand when I’ve been mentoring as long as her. Maybe I’d be more sympathetic to the older victors if they weren’t such bastards.

Benjamin’s indifference towards his tributes borders on abuse. As Ilana’s mentor, he wasted few words on her until she pulled off a noteworthy training score. But by then it was too late to make up for all the opportunities he missed to fill her in on how to survive, and I instead had to watch my district partner and friend suffer from his negligence. I’ve interacted him little since my victory, but we mentored together last year. He treated his last tribute in pretty much the same fashion as he did Ilana.

Solar, on the other hand, pays attention to her tributes. But she sees them as nothing more than toys to play with until she grows bored with them. And even worse than how she treats her tributes is how she treated her new victor. As I found out. I still wake up in the middle of the night convinced that I can hear her breathing in my room as she waits to tear me apart.

I climb into the train and brace myself for another year of nightmares. Another couple kids who will go to their graves for nothing but the pleasure of the Capitol. My cane taps the ground in front of me as I navigate the hallways of the train cars, and eventually I come to an open space. I pause and listen. Somebody else is here, in addition to the avoxes. The avoxes I hear well enough; they wear bells so that I don’t trip over them or think that they’re not in the room. But the other person sits quietly somewhere trying not to be heard.

Most people are respectful enough that they’ll say hello when I enter a room like this so that I know that they’re there. But Solar, of course, is not like most people.

I tap the cane in front of me as I step further into the room. The soft carpet under my shoes dampens noise, but I tune in well enough to know that Solar is sitting about halfway in the room, most likely in one of the soft chairs. I’m probably in the lounge car right now given the fact that I can access it so easily. Aside from the dining car, the lounge is one of the few communal places. It’s filled with plenty of furniture and, of course, a large television so that we can watch all of the reapings.

I ‘accidentally’ hit Solar’s leg with my cane in passing. She curses, and I keep a straight face as I move on to find another piece of furniture. When I do, I feel around for the armrest and carefully lower myself down into the plush armchair.

Spending time with my former mentor isn’t high on my list of things I enjoy doing, but we both must keep up appearances. Wilton will be bringing our tributes in soon enough, and it’s important that we pretend like we can work together so that it doesn’t cause unnecessary stress on our tributes. I don’t know what Solar’s goal is this year, but I want to get my tribute out alive, so the less freaked out he is, the better.

“I really don’t think your tribute will make it,” Solar says with mock sympathy. “He’s a bit too needy looking, if you know what I’m saying. I mean, go ahead and mentor him, but know that he probably won’t get out of the bloodbath.”

Mind games. I ignore her.

My fingers run across the velvet padding of the armrest and I contemplate what little info George has told me. It gives me next to nothing to go off of, but it’s better than having nothing at all which is what happened the first year I mentored. But my thoughts float away from the reaping. George and Marie would be heading back home by now. They’d hang out with Grandpa for a bit before they decide to get lunch, or maybe Grandpa would have lunch already made for them. He is always eager to keep Marie well fed. I focus on the smooth texture of the upholstery and try not to think about Marie or the baby, but my mind keeps drifting back to them. I have to be here for my tribute. I can’t think about home when I need to put all my energy into giving this kid as fair of a shot as he can get. It’s shitty enough to go to the Hunger Games, but even shittier when you’re assigned the blind mentor.

Solar gives up on trying to bother me, and only a few minutes pass before I hear Wilton’s voice float through the train. He promises the tributes that they’ll have access to all the food and beverages that they could ever want while on the train and they should take advantage of this luxury. I grit my teeth and try to ground myself so that I don’t go off on him. Terrifying tributes is his job, and I need to remember my own part in this. His voice becomes louder as he steps into the lounge car.

“This is the lounge, where we will spend quality time together, and these are your mentors Solar Graham and Elijah Asher,” Wilton says gracefully. “Solar, Elijah, meet Magnetite Galvani and James Faraday.”

The two tributes shuffle inside. Their shoes brush against the thick carpet as they walk closer towards us.

“It’s nice to meet you,” the girl says quietly. Her voice is simple and sweet. But I hear the residual tears in her words.

“Thank you for being our mentors,” the boy then says.

I raise an eyebrow. That’s a new one. He won’t be thanking us when we’re done with him, though.

Solar doesn’t use this opportunity to rip into either of them. She likes to lure her prey in slowly so they don’t expect it when she pounces on them and fills them with her venom.

“Magnetite, I will be mentoring you,” Solar says. “And James, you will be with Elijah.”

“O-okay, thank you,” the boy breathes.

“Thank you,” the girl echoes.

“Such sweet tributes,” Wilton comments with what might be a touch of pride. Neither of them say anything, and I can only guess at how they respond to a comment like that. Nobody wants ‘sweet’ tributes. Those are the sort that get mowed down right away. Anyone who has ever watched the Hunger Games understand the importance of making sure words like ‘sweet’ and ‘innocent’ aren’t attached to them when they go into the arena.

“Right, well, I’m sure you guys are freaked out and tired from crying your eyes out, so let’s have some lunch,” I say as I heave myself to my feet.

“Elijah, be gentle with them,” Solar says. She clicks her tongue in disproval.

I refrain from making any sort of comment on that. Nice to know that she’s going to try to play the ‘good guy’ role around here.

“Wilton, is the dining car still connected to this car?” I ask.

“Yes, of course. Right this way,” he says, and I follow after him. As we walk, he tells the tributes, “We have to keep things very particular for Elijah since he cannot see. You notice that the avoxes have bells? That was our little ingenious idea to make sure that Elijah knows that they’re around.”

It wasn’t _our_ idea, I want to correct him. I had no desire to dehumanize the slaves a little more by reducing them to animals. But I will admit that it helps me avoid running into them or assuming their positions in a room. Now, however, I follow the sound of Wilton’s voice and I listen to the tribute’s shuffling steps to make sure that I will not collide with them as we all migrate to the dining car.

As we take our seats at the dining table, Wilton goes on to assure James that working with me will be like working with any other victor, and that he shouldn’t let my blindness cause him any concern. He tells James that he’ll have to be patient with me and to forgive any errors. This, I’m sure, offers no sort of reassurance to the tribute. He’s seen my tributes’ performances in the past, and he knows that there’s not a great amount of hope for a lowly District 5 tribute assigned to be mentored by the guy who literally has no eyes.

“Hey, Wilton, I’m right here,” I cut the escort off before he can go on any further in freaking the kid out. “James and I will talk about this later, okay?”

“Well of course,” Wilton says.

“Elijah is a very quick learner,” I hear Solar say, mostly likely to James. “I’m sure that he’s learned from his past mistakes with tributes.”

“Well at least one of us has,” I say before I can stop myself.

Geeze, this is dissolving into a shitfest faster than I thought it would. I take a moment to breathe and try to pull myself back together. Ignore Wilton’s stupid, but well-meaning (I think) remarks. Ignore Solar trying to undermine me as a mentor. Focus on my tribute.

The avoxes serve us plates of food. This is another new thing that was put in place because of me. It’s far easier to have somebody give me a plate with food already on it than it is for me to go through a buffet line, though the downside is that the avoxes can’t talk and I have absolutely no idea what’s on my plate. I could ask one of the others here, but I’m not keen on showing my new tribute just how much help I need to perform basic tasks in life. The buffet still exists, and the others can go up and get seconds, but I rarely do. I’d rather go hungry for a few hours til the next meal than have to potentially embarrass myself.

I pick up my fork and am about to start prodding the food when I hear Solar once again:

“There’s diced red potatoes at one o’clock, applesauce at four o’clock, and pork chops at eight o’clock,” she says with kindness that I can see right through but others wouldn’t.

“Thanks, Solar. I can always count on you,” I say. But I poke around my plate with my fork and find that she actually told the truth. She’ll wait to mess with me a bit more when nobody’s looking.

As we eat, Wilton tells the tributes about the agenda for today and tomorrow. It’s the usual stuff; not much about it has changed over the past few years since the Capitol has its murder entertainment refined to an art. Got to make the kids look good before they get stabbed, bludgeoned, and mutilated for a bit of fun. But although I might know the schedule pretty well, it’s all new to the tributes. They ask a few questions here and there, but overall it’s pretty standard.

“I think it’s about time to watch the reapings,” Wilton says as he scrapes the last of the food off his plate. I’ve grown use to the sound of forks scraping against dishes and people slurping up their food and all sorts of other things that probably bother the average person but from which I cannot escape. Yet Wilton must take pride in the amount of noise he makes like he’s trying to remove the design painted on the center of the dish. Without waiting for the others to finish, I set down my fork, push back my chair, and excuse myself to the lounge car.


	3. Chapter 3

James treads carefully around me. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s hesitant that I’m his mentor or if he’s just freaked out about being here in the first place. But his words are guarded and he speaks with caution.

The two of us have withdrawn to a private mentoring car to give us space to talk without worrying about being overheard by either Solar and Magnetite (Maggie, as she requested to be called) or any of the various people manning this train. The mentoring car is smaller than many of the others, but it’s comfortable enough. Solar never bothered to use this when I was a tribute, so it was something that I had to be introduced to in my first year of mentoring. It’s about ninety percent furniture judging by how I keep bumping into crap whenever in here. Apparently there’s also a soda fountain on one wall, but so far tributes have been too reserved to venture away from whatever couch or chair they park themselves in.

“Tell me about yourself,” I say to the tribute.

He hesitates as though he’s assembling his thoughts, but then he says, “What do you want to know?”

Great question. I was kind of hoping he’d start talking about something and we could go from there. It’s easier if the tributes are willing to talk about themselves because I can usually grab onto a fact or skill that might be noteworthy. Then again, I didn’t exactly do a spectacular job the last couple years, so maybe switching up my tactic would be worthwhile.

I think about Solar’s initial question for me back when I was a tribute: _Why should I bother helping you?_

Clearing my throat, I sit up straighter and push thoughts of my corrupted former mentor to the back of my mind where hopefully they’ll stay for the next hour or so.

“What are you good at?” I try.

James cracks his knuckles as he thinks, and I wince. That’s even worse than listening to Wilton clean off his plate.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ve been told it drives people nuts, but I forget sometimes.”

“Right,” I say even though it really will drive me mad if he keeps doing it. A week is a long time when people have annoying habits and tics that you can’t escape from. “Skills. What are yours?”

“I can fight,” he says. He keeps his words even. “I mean like really fight.”

That could mean pretty much anything. I absently twist the ring on my finger as I think about how to proceed from here. It’s a strange dance of words we mentors must do to keep from overwhelming our tributes or selling them short. A misspoken word, an ill-phrased comment . . . it could be the difference between your tribute trusting you and your tribute giving up hope entirely.

But before I can get out a follow-up question, James adds, “I was arrested for beating up a kid when I was fourteen. It’s on my juvenile record, so it’s nothing people will know about, but—I’m serious that I can fight.”

Oh shit. Sure, okay.

“Doesn’t sound like a fair fight if they had to arrest you,” I comment.

“His mom was the mayor of Transistor. That’s where I’m from,” he clarifies. “He jumped me. I finished it.”

I nod. “Weapons?”

“If needed,” he says. “Nothing like what they have in the Hunger Games, but I can improv pretty well as long as it doesn’t require any particular technique. Otherwise I can get by with just my fists.”

“Well it’s a good thing that improvising is key to the arena,” I say.

Already I’m having dangerous thoughts. The last two years, I had tributes who were decent, but they weren’t really _good_. They could figure out a few things to get them by but it wasn’t enough to set them apart from the other kids. But someone who can fight not just because he got beat up in school or took self-defense courses but because he’s had real experience. . . .

He’s no Career, but he might be able to make it. I swallow hard and try to remind myself to be realistic. “Make it” means that he has to outlive twenty-three others, not just be better than most of the tributes. He needs to be the best without exception. Having a juvenile record might be proof that he can throw a punch, but that alone won’t put him above kids who have trained their entire lives for this.

And speaking of, what happens when the record he thinks has been sealed suddenly becomes public knowledge?

First thing’s first. I need to deal with the information I have right now. I can’t let myself get overwhelmed before things even begin.

“Please, Elijah?” he says. “Please just give me a chance. I can do this.”

He says this with such earnestness that at first I can’t respond to it. It’s almost like he thinks that I won’t give him the time of day. Why? He’s my tribute, and it’s my job to give him a shot at victory. So why does he feel like he needs to beg me to trust him? And what does one even say to that?

“Alright,” I nod. “Let’s talk about your fighting.”

I sit back in my chair and run my hand over the armrest. Something about the motion, simple though it is, helps me focus on the present. It’s easy to get distracted when you have no visual cues to keep you on track, and disappearing inside my head is often a very tempting option when things get overwhelming. This armrest has leather padding wrapped around polished wood. I let my fingers explore the end of the arm where the exposed wood is carved and smooth.

For the next few minutes, I get a feel for my tribute with a few basic questions: What type of fighting he usually does, how many fights he’s been in, what his weaknesses are, how he’d judge his survival skills. As he answers, he’s always respectful, but he doesn’t bother trying to be humble and hide his talents. And talents he does have. He has an impressive list of fights he’s been in, sometimes against kids several years older than him. He admits that he doesn’t always win, but he understands that the Hunger Games require more self-control than most fights. He is also skilled in cleaning and dressing wounds, including how to do basic suturing.

“Am I allowed to ask why you fight so much?” I ask at one point.

“I had to,” he answers simply, and doesn’t add anything more to that. So we get back on topic and discuss strategy.

“Would you describe yourself as somebody who is intimidating in appearance?” I ask him. He hesitates, so I continue, “Yes, this is the disadvantage of having a blind mentor. Wilton was bullshitting you by trying to say that it doesn’t make a difference. It does in some regards, like this, but it won’t stop me from doing my job.”

“Alright,” he says. “No. I am not intimidating.”

“Do you think you could pull off being helpless?” I ask. “Not completely earthshattering stupid, but somebody mediocre who doesn’t have a chance?”

“I think so,” he answers. And then, “No, I can. I will.”

“Don’t overdo it,” I tell him. “Otherwise they won’t believe you.”

“Right, yes sir,” he says.

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir,’” I say uneasily. The kid’s only a few years younger than me and it’s not like we need formalities anyhow.

With that, we continue talking about how to enhance his strategy and make himself convincing, both for the other tributes and within the District 5 apartment. It’s more than just putting on a show for the other tributes in the training room but also crafting himself in a manner so that people only see whatever he wants them to see. Many kids wouldn’t be able to pull this off, but I get the feeling that this won’t be an issue for James.

I dismiss him as dinnertime approaches, and we stand up to leave. He heads to the door as I grab up my cane and pause to gather my thoughts together, but then he stops.

“Elijah?” he asks. His voice ventures tentatively between us.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I have a chance?” he asks.

I say nothing for a few long seconds as I contemplate his question. My heart thumps and I clutch my cane in both hands. Every tribute wants to be told that he or she has a shot to come out alive even if they know that it’s not realistic. They want somebody to believe in them for even a fraction of a second because otherwise what’s the point of even trying? And every mentor wants to be able to assure his tribute that all is not lost, even though we know that so many of them don’t have a chance in hell. Yet James is different. I can’t quite understand it yet, and I’m not sure if I will, but he isn’t a trembling child begging me to promise him life when we both know that the best I can do is lie.

“If what you’ve told me is true, then yes,” I reply.

And I hope to God that I am right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James emerges from vague NPC-land and starts to become a real character as he has always dreamed.


	4. Chapter 4

We see the tributes to the Remake Center, and then Solar and I part ways. I head to the Training Center to acquaint myself with the mentoring room where I’ll be until James dies, and Solar goes off to whatever Capitol lap she’s entertaining this time around.

The cab driver tries to make conversation with me while we drive which is unfortunate because I don’t give a shit about what he has to say. Most cabbies are tolerable enough that they realize after a question or two that it’s best to shut their mouths. Fortunately the trip is short, and he finally brings me to my destination without further issue. I thank him, climb out of the cab, and make my way to the doors of the Training Center.

When I first came to the Capitol, I had been able to take in the sights of this terrible building and all that it encompassed for a tribute. The layout of the lobby is burned into my mind, as is the training room in the floors below and our District 5 apartment above. But it’s the smell that really sticks with me. I hadn’t picked it up consciously as a tribute, but now I can’t erase the scent of floor cleaner and floral candles from my nostrils the moment I walk into the lobby. Every time I step through these doors it hits me again, and the dread that I had tried to suppress rushes back with full-force and threatens to knock me over. I fight through it and make my way through a familiar corridor and to the elevators that will lead me to the mentoring room.

Victors don’t have access to the full layout of the building, and this particular elevator only makes a few stops. It’s easy enough for my fingers to search the panel to find one of three available buttons, and I slide my fingertips across the raised sets of dots until I locate the one that I want. The elevator thrums silently as it lifts up from the ground floor to whatever floor the mentoring room is on. The doors open with a muted hiss. In the hallway I barely need to count my steps until I find the mentoring room, so familiar is this path despite the fact that it’s been a whole year since I was here last.

“Elijah!” comes a voice as soon as I step through the doors. Female. Familiar, of course. Way too enthusiastic for the situation despite the fact that she’s trying to suppress it. There are few victors with whom I’d call myself friendly, but Lady McClure is one of them. We got thrown together pretty early on after my victory, and she has sort of taken me under her wing, though neither of us admit it. Footsteps cross the floor closer to me but stop a respectful distance away. “Good to see you again. Congratulations, by the way.”

Congratulations? Ah, yeah, right. I forget that news travels very quickly through Panem when the Capitol decides that everyone should know about your personal life.

I raise an eyebrow. “Let me guess, you, too, are happy that I got my wife pregnant,” I say.

Lady laughs. “You have a way with words,” she says. “C’mon, our computer stations are a little different this year—they have cup holders!”

This is Lady’s excuse for showing me to my seat. Every year they do some sort of upgrade or another to the mentoring room, and last year they slightly changed the position of the chairs which caused a bit of confusion. So rather than being awkward and ‘leading’ me to my place, she’s ‘accompanying’ me so that she can show me whatever changes without embarrassing me.

Of course, she won’t be sitting near me. My position at the District 5 station is on the opposite side of the room from hers in District 10. The room is divided so that on the left wall are the stations for the first six districts and on the opposite wall are the stations for the remaining six districts. There are two computer stations for each district, one for each mentor. More than likely the seat next to mine will remain empty, and that’s just fine with me.

“Right here,” Lady says. I reach out with my free hand and feel the back of a chair.

“Ah, they’ve upgraded these, too,” I note as I run my hands across the synthetic leather. “About time.”

I lower myself into my chair, rest my cane against my knee, and let my hands familiarize themselves with the set-up. Other victors have described to me what their computer stations look like. Mostly it relies on touchscreens to flip between information panels, inventories, and maps. Mine, on the other hand, provides a more tactile interface so that I can easily keep track of with what’s happening in the arena. I let my fingers trail over the ‘screen’ which is currently a flat surface. At the top are several buttons, each written in braille: tribute stats, tribute inventory, all tributes, store, map, etc. I press on the one to give me my tribute’s stats and the ‘screen’ vibrates for the briefest of seconds. And then what was once flat morphs into a surface with raised braille letters. State of the art Capitol technology actually being put to good use for once. If you can call a control panel to keep track of child murder a ‘good use’, of course. For all of the Capitol’s shortcomings, it’s fairly surprising that somebody went out of their way to design a computer that I can use so that my tribute won’t be completely screwed over.

Name: James Faraday  
Age: 16  
District: 5  
Grade: 11  
Hometown: Transistor

I scan through information about my tribute, and it gives typical stats. When I ‘scroll’ down on the computer, the screen changes to display new lines of braille. There’s nothing here that jumps out as being particularly noteworthy.

Once I’m satisfied, I close up the file and turn off the screen.

Lady sits in the chair next to me. “Pretty impressive that you can read hundreds of little dots like that,” she comments.

“Since my choices were between hundreds of little dots and nothing, I took the lesser of two evils,” I say. “I’m sure they probably would have made me use an avox to read everything for me if it weren’t for the fact that avoxes can’t speak.”

Lady laughs. “Every time I think about the avoxes in your apartment, I can’t help but think of cows wearing bells,” she says. She snickers about this for a moment, but the laughter dies away and for a second she’s quiet. I’m about to ask what’s wrong when she says, “Oh, it’s the new girl. And she’s with the kid who won the year before.”

The new girl. Isolde Lee of District 1. She and Hammer Williams, also of District 1, won back-to-back years. Right after my victory. The successive wins of District 1 was a nice little reminder that Career victories not only were a thing but _should_ be a thing. No matter how hard we might have tried to bring our tributes to victory the last two years, it was futile because the Capitol wanted Careers to win.

With the new girl comes a bit of commotion. Other mentors who were quiet when I entered suddenly come alive. A couple of them greet her, but even those who remain in their seats begin chattering to each other in low voices.

“Isolde, Hammer—you guys mentoring this year?” comes a voice from the other side of the room. I think it is Demeter from District 11.

“Yes we are!” the girl says proudly.

“First year and mentoring,” I mutter under my breath.

“That’s what most of us did, you included,” Lady replies, equally quiet.

True. Few districts have the ability to rotate victors, but District 1 is one of them, of course. Rather foolish to throw the new victor into the mentor position when she could have been eased in like Career victors have done in the past. And though it’s Hammer’s second year as victor, it’s his first year as mentor, too.

“Seems like someone wanted to show off their new victors,” I say to Lady.

She grunts in reply. Any of us non-Careers would have been thrilled if we could have not mentored our first year. Even those districts, like mine, who have more than two living victors end up throwing their new victors into mentoring because the older victors are so tired. Most of those districts ultimately rotate through everyone to give each mentor a year or two off every couple years, but that’s because their victors are probably halfway decent individuals.

I turn back to my computer station and once more scan through James’ stats, but my mind is elsewhere. My fingers flip through the tabs. The map, store, and inventory tabs are all blank and they’ll stay that way until the Hunger Games officially begins. Then they’ll feed us the bare minimum as the tributes progress through the arena. But the ‘all tributes’ tab has information, and I run my fingers down the list of tributes. Each one has basic stats. Not as detailed as my personal tribute, but enough for a mentor to familiarize himself with the competition.

My fingers stop at District 2 female. Mentor: Ferrer Miltiades. I take a deep breath and force myself to move onward. For each tribute, I try to piece together what I know about their reaping. Again, challenging when you can see nothing and have to go based on spoken or written words. It’s harder for things to stick in your head that way, but over the past couple years, it’s slowly gotten better than it originally was. Which isn’t saying a whole lot, I suppose.

From down the row of computer stations I hear the voices of one of the other District 1 victors, Jericho, walking Isolde and Hammer through how to use their stations. I wouldn’t call either new victor ‘excited,’ per se, but there’s a level of energy that strikes a nerve within me. Give them a few days once the Hunger Games begin and they’ll see how gut-wrenching this process is, but in the meantime they’re nearly unbearable. Damned Careers.

“Alright, this has been fun but I think I’m going to head out,” I say to Lady after a minute. Before things get too crowded. Before I have to start socializing with people, especially District 1 and their insufferable enthusiasm for the Hunger Games. Before I end up running into Ferrer and he decides that we need a heart-to-heart.

Lady stands up with me and we migrate slowly towards the door. She’s not doing this to lead me or to assist me. I don’t know how, but I know these things. Maybe there’s something I’m picking up about the way people walk but I don’t realize it yet, I don’t know. But right now, she’s walking with me purely as company and not as my guide.

“I’ll see you later,” she says when we get to the door.

There are too many people in here, all making noise, and it’s starting to become overwhelming. I manage to mutter a “goodbye” to her, but it takes me a second to pull myself together and head out the door and into the thankfully quiet hallway on the other side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the massive delay. I've been required to use my best writing hours to do important IRL things, so that had to take priority.
> 
> I'd like to note that I went back and edited the first chapter (another reason for my delay) because I didn't like the way it flowed. It's essentially the same thing, but I switched a few things around, added some stuff, and made things make a little more sense. There's some additional dialogue and narration, but it doesn't really change the plot. Anyhow, wanted to give you guys a head's up on that.


	5. Chapter 5

I attend the tribute parade mostly just for moral support. It doesn’t make a damned bit of difference to me what the stylists put the tributes in. I’ll review the ratings when they’re released, but it’s not like I can really appreciate what sorts of ridiculous and often inappropriate things the kids wear every year. Back during my Hunger Games, my stylist dressed me in a spandex suit with a thundercloud pattern and little lights that zipped around to imitate lightning. Great in theory, mediocre execution in reality. Still, better than what it could have been. I don’t know where my stylist ended up following his promotion, but it doesn’t concern me a bit.

After ensuring that James managed to get on the chariot without hurting himself, I wish the tributes good luck and duck into the waiting room for the mentors. Here we watch the parade, and then cars take us to the Training Center.

As I wait for the tributes to scrape the layers of makeup off their faces and wash the gel out of their hair, I explore my bedroom. Each mentor and tribute has his or her own bedroom in their district’s apartment in the training center. The rooms meant for the tributes are identical to each other: simple, sterile, forgettable. Just like the tributes housed in them year after year. The rooms meant for the mentors have more personality, but even that is limited to a few small items of decoration. Wilton, for all his attempts to help me, has finally gotten something right and I am housed in the same bedroom every year so that I don’t accidentally find myself in the wrong one. This room, like my computer station in the mentoring room, has been modified. The majority of changes are in the bathroom, though there are a few minor ones in the bedroom itself.

But the change that I value the most is the lock on the door. After explaining to Wilton that the idea of somebody going into my room and messing with things without my knowledge interfered with my ability to keep myself organized, he agreed that a lock system that read my fingerprint would be appropriate. No need to worry about keys or anything of the sort. Organization, of course, was not my motivation. Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night and think that Solar has crept into bed with me.

I walk around the room and allow myself to become reacquainted with the room and ensure that nothing has changed too drastically. Same smooth steel bedframe, same sleek dresser, same wardrobe full of clothes labelled by color. They’ve added a clock with an open face on the nightstand next to my bed, but otherwise it seems pretty standard. It occurs to me that the Capitol wants to change very little in our rooms not for the sake of convenience but because they don’t want to provide us with a fresh experience every Hunger Games. They want us to be surrounded by the same furniture and atmosphere so we can relieve the experiences of past Hunger Games. Of unsuccessful Hunger Games. Just to remind us that this year, too, we will fail to bring our tributes to victory.

Once I am more-or-less satisfied with my room, I know I can no longer avoid the communal areas of this apartment. When Benjamin mentors with me, I don’t find myself quite so hesitant, but Solar goes out of her way to make me uncomfortable, and then it becomes a battle of who can hold out longer while I simultaneously try to attend to my tribute.

My fingers linger on the door knob for the briefest of seconds, and then I know that I can’t avoid it any longer and I step into the hallway and close the door firmly behind me. It automatically locks as soon as it closes.

The walk to the dining area is familiar enough that I don’t need to worry about counting steps. When I first had to deal with my blindness, getting lost was a major concern. It still is, but over time the thought of having no clue where I am becomes less and less ominous. Moving throughout familiar places—this apartment, the mentoring room (once I adjust to any changes which are, usually, minor), a few of my more frequented places in the Capitol—no longer requires the obsessive step counting. Sometimes I still find myself doing it out of habit.

Like in the train, the avoxes in this apartment wear bells, too. It can become overwhelming to listen to a half dozen jingling noises emanating from different locations within the room. As a result, my brain sometimes tunes them out or at least diminishes them.

“Your seat is still here,” Wilton proclaims when I approach the table.

I won’t admit that I appreciate when he tells me these things, so I just take my spot as usual and make myself comfortable. Then I strain to listen to who all is here. People make little noises that ‘tell’ me who is who. Sometimes it’s more obvious such as a nervous fidget or tic, and other times it’s simply the way they breathe. Although it’s been a day since the reaping, I’ve started to pick up things about the tributes. James cracks his knuckles far more frequently than he realizes he does, and I try to pretend that it doesn’t bother me. He’s fairly fidgety, too, but it doesn’t seem to be nerves. It’s like he’s good for several minutes and then notices something that draws his attention away from whatever he’s doing regardless of the conversation. Maggie, on the other hand, mumbles things to herself and sometimes she takes deep, shaky breaths.

Using these cues, I know that Wilton is at the head of the table to my right, Maggie sits to my left, James is across from me, and Solar is diagonal from me.

The avoxes move around the room as they start placing dishes on the table. This time, we have to serve ourselves, which is easy enough because the avoxes have started labelling bowls with what they have inside of them. At first I had to rely on Wilton, Solar, and the tributes, but Wilton often got distracted and Solar has no intention of helping me. The tributes have other things on their minds and don’t need to be focusing on making sure that I’m eating properly. So once the avoxes set all the dishes out on the table for us, I reach for the closest dish and briefly run my fingers on the outer edge of the bowl until I find the marker. Rice. I spoon it out on my plate, then set it down and pick up the next bowl. Venison stew. And so on.

“Well, I hope you have made yourselves comfortable in your rooms,” Wilton says to the tributes once we’ve all got ourselves served with some food. I listen to the clink of silverware against dishes and everybody chewing their meals.

“I did, thanks,” James answers.

Then Maggie says, “The rooms are nice, thank you.”

Polite kids. A helluva lot more respectful than I was when I was a tribute. I don’t know if it’s some sort of tactic they’re using or if they really have manners this well engrained that they don’t understand that such things don’t matter much anymore.

“While you are here in the Capitol, everything is at your disposal,” the escort tells them. “I see that you’ve made yourselves acquainted with the showers. You can take as many showers as you want, of course. And the beds should be to your liking, but if not, the avoxes can always get you more pillows. And the food is endless, so if you want anything between meals, please make sure to let the avoxes know.”

I bite back a response to that in my attempts to be a somewhat decent mentor. Both tributes thank him again, but neither of them press the issue further.

“I bet you two can’t start you first day of training,” Wilton says in the silence that follows.

Neither of the tributes respond to that. Their silverware clicks against their dishes more slowly. No tribute wants to start training. It’s bad enough that they have to go to the Hunger Games, but then to be ridiculed and forced to face the kids who will kill them? I continue eating as though none of this bothers me.

Wilton continues, seemingly unperturbed by their silence, “The other tributes look like they will be very easy to get along with, so make sure that you enjoy yourselves and don’t be too intimidated.”

I lower my fork and wipe my mouth with my napkin.

“Wilton, did it ever occur to you that you were not hired for your pep talks?” I ask him.

He sniffs in irritation. “Is that your way of asking me to be quiet, Elijah?” he asked.

“I’m not asking—I’m telling,” I say sharply.

“They just need a bit of cheering up—”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen when they’re on a quick route to death, so shut it,” I interrupt. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize how crass that was. Hell, it’s worse than what I was trying to keep Wilton from saying. I clear my throat and go back to my food, acutely aware that I am only a few hours into this mentoring business and I’ve already made my first critical and completely senseless mistake. All other eating at the table has stopped.

Solar only finds this amusing. I hear a light chuckle from her direction.

“Classy, Elijah,” she says.

I dig my spoon into the rice and stew. As much as I want to shoot a retort to Solar, I keep my words to myself. The two of us can go at each other when our tributes are dead and we don’t need to worry about damaging their delicate psyches, but for the time being, we both must play this nice little game to pretend that we are at least somewhat respectful of each other.

“You’ll have to forgive Elijah,” she says to the tributes. “Being blind makes him grumpy.”

_That and many other things._

“Oh, no, he was always like this, even before he won,” Wilton corrects her. “Do you remember when he—”

But before he can get much further in that sentence, I cut him off by addressing the tributes:

“After dinner, Solar and I will be going over with you tactics for how to tackle training,” I say in an effort to sound vaguely professional. Telling tributes what you’re going to be doing in the immediate future is a good way to make sure that they know that you know what you’re doing. Also it’s just a good idea to make sure that they’re not panicking too much by being completely unaware of what’s going on around them.

The tributes thank me politely.

Dinner continues on with little dialogue, though Wilton does start in on the various exciting things the next week will offer the tributes. None of it is practical, and I’m sure it only causes them to freak out more. If the tributes were bothered by my comment, they say nothing about it, and they continue eating just as they did before the conversation went downhill.

But all I can think is that I still have several more days of this to get through, and how many senseless errors will I make? I know my tribute doesn’t have a great chance of victory, but I also don’t want to make his last days miserable, either. I won’t do to him what Solar did to me.


	6. Chapter 6

Some mentors are sociable. I am not one of them. When my tribute and his district partner head off to the first day of training with Wilton leading the way, I don’t bother to go to the mentoring room to catch up with the people I only have the joy to be around because of the annual murder event. Instead I retreat to my room, grab my headphones, and turn on the television.

For the next several hours, I listen to replays of previous Hunger Games and make notes on my phone: what weapons and items tend to be at the Cornucopia every year, how far away ‘good’ items are from the tributes, what some of the pros and cons of previous arenas have been. Around noon I take a break for lunch and to stretch my legs, only to return to my room again and listen to audiobooks about survival. Hour after hour of this shit starts to grate on me, but I find ways to detach myself from the content I’m listening to so that it doesn’t wear me away too quickly. There’s a fine balance between distancing myself from the material and yet still paying close enough attention that I don’t miss it entirely.

When the tributes return from training and have a chance to cool off and shower, I pull James aside and lead him to our mentoring room.

“How’d it go?” I ask him once we’re comfortable in the couches provided us.

“Turns out I don’t have to try too hard to be mediocre,” he responds. Although he tries to say this like he doesn’t care, I catch a hint of hopelessness creeping into his tone. Easy to do, all things considered. You can go in thinking that you have a chance, but then when you see that you’re only one of twenty-four and people are far more skilled than you in so many ways, all thoughts of potential victory fall through.

“Training isn’t to actually teach you anything,” I remind him. “As we talked yesterday, it’s just to let you brush up on a few skills and check out your competition. And, of course, to make you feel like shit because you suddenly realize how much you _don’t_ know.”

James says nothing for a moment. He adjusts himself on his couch and lets out a long breath.

“The Careers are so good,” he says, and now he no longer makes attempts to sound like he’s remotely confident in what he’s doing. “I didn’t even think it was possible for teenagers to be that good at something, let alone weapons. I mean, I’ve seen previous Hunger Games, but when it’s actually in person. . . .”

I rub my chin and think about it for a moment. I try to ask myself what sorts of things I’d wanted to hear from a mentor when I was a tribute. But without much guidance, I find myself only falling back on what I once told Ilana when her hope had slipped away from her.

“In the end, the Careers are just teenagers,” I say carefully. “They shouldn’t be underestimated because they are very skilled, but they also shouldn’t be elevated to deity status. They have their weaknesses, too.”

James scoffs. “Weaknesses? I just saw one guy deadlift over three hundred pounds,” he says. “And he also managed to use the sword, the spear, and the bow pretty damned well. You’re going to tell me that he has a weakness?”

“So, what? You think he is some sort of superhuman?” I ask. “He’s a trained killer, but he’s not invincible.”

“Right. And what would be the weakness of somebody like him?” James demands. Anger tinges his voice, barely covering the fear beneath it. The thought of some kid who has trained his entire life to be here freaks him out and for a damned good reason.

“I don’t know. Maybe he shits himself every time he tries to lift more than that,” I say with irritation. Not towards James but towards his situation and how he has no chance against the other tributes. Though how could he not think that I am annoyed with him? I take a deep breath and try again: “Yes, he does have a weakness. He might be skilled in weaponry and survival, but he probably has some terrible character trait that makes his downfall.”

“Another guy ‘killed’ a target with a stone. A small one that could fit into his hand. One of the girls threw a dozen knives in quick succession and each one hit the moving dummies in the throat,” he says quietly. “I’d like to think they have a weakness—I _know_ they have a weakness—but it’s a little hard to get past the fact that when it comes down to it, their weaknesses don’t matter if their strengths get to me first.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why they train,” I say. “And that’s why _you_ have to keep a level head and understand that they’re not invincible.”

James lets out a little groan. “Alright, fine,” he says. “I get it. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

“Do better? What, should I ask, happened today that you need to improve on?” I question.

A scraping noise comes from his direction as though he’s running his fingernail against the arm of the couch. At first he doesn’t answer and I wonder what sort of horrors happened in the training room today.

“I think I spent too much time watching the Careers,” he says quietly. “From the fringes. I wasn’t going anywhere near them. They might have noticed me, though. Tomorrow I’ll go do something else.”

I never realized how challenging it is to guide a tribute in his interactions during training until it was my responsibility. I know next to nothing about these other tributes, so I can’t exactly tell him the best way to handle the situation without risking botching it up entirely and instructing him to do something that will ultimately get him killed. Already I missed that he had pretty much been stalking the Careers despite the details he knew about them, and it was only the fact that he told me that clued me in. How am I supposed to be a good mentor if I can’t figure out these things without tributes telling me?

 _You can’t get so hung up on everything,_ I tell myself. _Just do this. Just continue this conversation. Think about everything else later._

“You’re aiming for mediocrity,” I remind him, trying to bring us back on track. “Keep your distance but don’t avoid them entirely.”

Actually, that could be a very good life motto.

From there we discuss the different stations. He goes over the ones he visited today and gives a report on how well (or not) he thinks he did. Then I advise him on which ones to visit tomorrow. In all reality, the stations aren’t entirely worthless; it’s just that nobody will be able to go from nothing to something in the span of three days. However, if you already have the skills, sometimes it’s helpful to refresh your memory on them, or maybe learn something that’s tangentially related to something you already know.

We end our meeting when Wilton comes and gets us for dinner. The meal goes much more smoothly than yesterday’s dinner, and the tributes even venture to join the conversation. James does a good job of keeping things even; he manages to dilute the little surges of optimism or dedication that I’ve picked up when I’ve spoken privately to him. Maggie treads water, and she’s quick to ask questions for clarification. Neither tribute talks about their training experiences even when Wilton prods them for more information.

At last dinner ends, and we’re going to go back to mentoring when Solar pulls me to the side.

“They’re looking for another Career win,” she says to me, her voice low so that we aren’t easily overheard by the others in the apartment. We stand somewhere between the dining room and the sitting room, and I’m not sure where the others are, but they don’t appear to be near us. And I doubt that Solar would impart such ‘knowledge’ on me with the others in earshot. She has an image to maintain, at least for the time being.

“They’re always looking for a Career win,” I say defensively.

She laughs. “Elijah, you think that they will let one of our tributes win after what you did?” she asks. “No, it will be a very long time before District 5 will have another victor. You’ll get used to losing your tributes though. Eventually.”

Apprehension oozes into me and begins to slip through my body. Solar unnerves me the best when her taunts and lies are blended with enough of the truth to make it believable. Then you have to figure out how much of her message should be believed, if at all.

“Did you get your hopes up?” she says in my silence. “Ah, sweet Elijah. You always want what’s best for your tributes, but did you ever think that maybe what’s best for them is a quick death?”

“I need to meet up with James,” I say before we can get any further into this conversation. I swallow hard and turn away from her to gather myself together for the briefest of moments before I plunge into another couple hours of mentoring. I’m only a few steps down the hallway when I hear her voice again.

“Elijah?” she says.

Against my better judgement, I turn and listen.

“Remember when James dies that this is because of you.”


	7. Chapter 7

In the morning, we meet for a brief breakfast and then Wilton whisks the tributes away for another day of training. Solar bids me farewell and disappears into the elevator. I take myself back to my bedroom, curl up on thick, oversized armchair, and stick my headphones in my ears. Then it’s time for me to continue my research.

However, I only manage to get an hour or so in before I receive a text message. I press the speak command, and the phone reads aloud:

> Elijah Asher, you are scheduled for an interview today at 11:00 AM. Please arrive at the Hotel Charlemagne at 10:30 AM.

“Shit,” I mutter. It’s way too damned early for interviews. Normally they don’t bring this sort of crap out until it’s a little later in the week at earliest. Sometimes they don’t bother until the Hunger Games is in full swing. I draw in a long, slow breath just the way my nurse Harmony taught me long ago, and I let it out through my mouth. It takes a couple of breaths like this before I’m calmed down enough that I can think about my next move.

And why they decided to interview me.

Of course there’s the standard ‘Elijah is blind and poking him with a stick makes good interview material’ sort of gimmick. And, no doubt, they realize that they can have _even more_ fun with me since my wife’s pregnancy is a newsworthy bit of trivia. I’ve been fortunate enough that they leave Marie alone for the most part, but this is something that is about me, too, and they can’t wait to hear more about it.

But, really, the possibilities are endless and there are a dozen different reasons that I need to consider as why they summoned me.

It doesn’t matter in the end, so I push myself out of the chair, stuff my headphones back in my pocket, and make myself mildly presentable. Not too presentable because they’ll just re-do whatever I do like I’m some sort of slob who can’t be bothered to take care of himself; there’s no use putting energy into it if they’re just going to override it. Still, I do take pride in my appearance enough; I don’t want to give them any reason to be justified in their beliefs. Once I’m put together, I head down to the lobby and call a cab.

Interviews that take place outside of the Hunger Games are normally held away from the Training Center. Once things get going and mentors are tied to their tributes in the arena, the Capitol constructs a platform in front of the Training Center specifically to interview victors. It’s not unusual, however, to find oneself summoned to a random location when the tribute’s immediate demise isn’t of concern.

The moment I step out of a cab, I find one of the hotel employees at my side, beckoning me to come with him. Other victors don’t get this sort of treatment. As uncomfortable as I am stepping into new territory like this, I find that the Capitol’s eagerness to ‘help’ me entirely overbearing. Still, I follow him because I have no choice, and he leads me through the lobby, down a hallway, and into a room.

No sooner have I stepped inside and the employee vanished then I realize that this interview is not just about me. Voices of other victors, most notably the two mentors from District 1, fill the small room. Great.

“Good to see you again, Elijah,” comes the voice of Ferrer of District 2.

“Yeah, you too,” I say, though I’m sure it comes across as complete disinterest.

Fortunately conversation isn’t allowed now because they drag us off to various rooms to prep us for the interview. I passively go along with it, allowing them to do whatever they need to do to make me fit for the camera.

Then they line the six of us up at a table in numerical order. The two from District 1, then Ferrer, then Gamma of District 3, myself, and finally Falcon of District 6. As we get settled in, I hear the obnoxious laugh of Caligula Klora, the Hunger Games interviewer.

A moment later, his voice comes from over towards my left.

“All right, you six,” he says to us. “Go ahead and get comfortable. Our interview today will be live. This is quite exciting, isn’t it?”

A few people murmur noncommittally but no one really answers him. An interview right now is not exciting by any means, not when we have critical roles to perform. I could be at the apartment trying to get as much information into my head as possible so that I could regurgitate it to James, but no. Instead I’m providing a bit of fun for the viewers at home to enjoy.

There’s a bit more of an exchange between Caligula and the staff, and then finally things seem to settle down. Usually Caligula takes the time to explain the set to me, but with a whopping six of us here, that sort of personal attention is not available. At least it’s not in front of an audience, even if it will be broadcasted live. Someone announces that we’re almost ready, and then there’s a countdown from five.

“Welcome everyone to our first official interview of the one hundred and thirty-sixth annual Hunger Games!” Caligula calls out for the invisible audience. “I have with me six of our beloved victors who are mentoring this year. We are so thrilled to have them here with us because we have so much to talk about. So if you can please welcome Isolde and Hammer of District 1, Ferrer of District 2, Gamma of District 3, Elijah of District 5, and Falcon of District 6!”

There’s a bit of a pause (I don’t know if the audience at home is supposed to be cheering at their television screens) and then Caligula turns towards us. His voice drops away from the enthusiasm with which he addressed the audience to something a little more friendly and personal.

“So let’s go ahead and start with our District 1 mentors,” he says. “Isolde, Hammer. This is both of your first years mentoring. What are you thinking so far?”

“This is a really great opportunity,” the male, Hammer, says. “We’re honored to be here.”

“I am looking forward to being a part of the Hunger Games from a new role,” the girl, Isolde, answers. I can hear the smile in her voice that conveys just how thrilled she is to be here. Sickening. But so goes the world of Careers.

I try to remind myself that Ferrer is a Career victor, and he’s not half bad. Maybe I’m too quick in judging these two. . . .

“Are you getting settled into your new room in the District 1 apartment okay, Isolde?” Caligula asks.

“Yes, it’s quite luxurious,” she answers. “Everything’s better than I remember it.”

The interview continues on with garbage like this being traded between the three of them. The girl is happy to be in this position (something which literally none of us other mentors are) and the boy is equally stoked to be mentoring. She tells us that it’s part of her dream to be able to represent District 1 in this manner. He tells us that he was eager to mentor last year and was disappointed to find out that the positions had already been claimed. Neither of them have any idea what they’re getting into, and yet I don’t think the viewers at home care about that because they just want to be spoon fed lies that let them sleep better at night.

Then Caligula asks the District 1 pair something that may be somewhat relevant to my duties as mentor: “So, tell me about your tributes.”

“I am mentoring Jewel Hart,” Isolde says. “She is just a remarkable person. Not only is she skilled in so many ways that will be valuable to her in the arena, but she’s just a really _kind_ girl.”

“My tribute is Lucky Dubois,” Hammer adds. “He is going to be the winner. Amazing skills. Smart guy. Keep an eye on him.”

“And they are quite fortunate to have you two as their mentors,” Caligula says.

And after a few more bits of dialogue between them, he turns to Ferrer as the next victim of the interview.

Ferrer, victor of the 118th Hunger Games, destroyed the vision I had of Career victors as heartless bastards. Following my win, he and a couple other victors (including Lady) stepped in to take over Solar’s role in her absence. His kindness confused me at first, but I slowly grew to understand that just because he volunteered to go to the arena once many years ago didn’t mean that he was a die-hard supporter of the Hunger Games. When I had trouble adjusting to home life, I spent several weeks in District 2 with him and his ever-growing family at which point I got to see the life of a former Career for myself. No, he didn’t have any desire to go to the Hunger Games, and now he’s making a life for himself outside of the confines of the arena and all it entails.

“Now tell me, Ferrer,” Caligula says to the District 2 victor. “Your tribute, Artemis, had a sister who we knew and loved very well before she was killed in the arena. What is it like mentoring a girl who has taken up the challenge to follow in her sister’s footsteps in the hopes of victory?”

Ahh. So _that’s_ why they invited me to this interview.

“Artemis is a brilliant tribute, and I mean that in every aspect,” Ferrer says. His voice is even and calm. Perhaps he practiced this, or maybe he’s just used to all the interviews over the years, but he doesn’t sound like being asked about one dead tribute’s relation to his current tribute doesn’t bother him. If I didn’t know him better, I would have thought that it didn’t. “She is a very well-rounded individual and she has skills across the board. She is following in her sister’s footsteps and has many of her sister’s positive qualities. However, I think it’s her own personal touches that make her a remarkable tribute, and I look forward to seeing her thrive in the arena.”

“Wow. This is just such a great opportunity for her to be here,” Caligula says like the asshole he is. “Can you remind of us how volunteering works in District 2? How was she chosen from all the eager potentials?”

“As you know, there are a great many kids who sign up for the volunteer positions. But when a tribute falls in the arena, his or her siblings have the opportunity to volunteer when they are ready for it, which allows them to bypass the normal system,” Ferrer answers. “Even so, they still need to prove that they have what it takes to be a good volunteer and represent our district with pride. In Artemis’ case, she wanted to wait until she was eighteen so that she would have the best chance possible to bring honor to District 2.”

“One of the things that was so remarkable about her sister, Athena, was that she wasn’t like the rest of the Careers in the pack,” the interviewer says. “Do you think that Artemis stands out in the same way?”

“She stands out in her own way, but I do think there is overlap between them,” Ferrer says. Every sentence is delivered gracefully. Professionally. Mentors don’t often say bad things about their tributes because even if they’re pieces of complete shit it would reflect poorly on the mentor, but sometimes you can hear it in how they speak that they’re not quite convinced that what they say about their tribute is correct. It’s not that way with Ferrer. Whether he’s thrilled or not about Artemis, you can’t tell.

Caligula pries a little more into the relationship between Artemis and Athena, and Ferrer gives him the answers he wants to hear. Of course he can’t say that he knows both sister so well because he trained them. Training for the Hunger Games is illegal. Nor can he say that he never wanted to train either of them, but the Capitol (the entity who makes training illegal) forced his hand and requires him to train potential tributes. You wouldn’t guess that there might be any hint of discomfort with the situation by the manner in which Ferrer talks.

Once Caligula has wrung him dry, he turns to the next victor, Gamma of District 3. Gamma won the 110th Hunger Games and gets dragged out to interviews every once in awhile, but not very often. District 3 usually gets left alone because their tributes are nothing to write home about and they’re usually pretty forgettable. ‘Bloodbath fodder’ as they’re called.

But Caligula finds stuff to talk about with him. Most of it involves how promising Gamma’s tribute, Tech, appears even though he’s only fourteen years old. There’s an underlying tone of ‘hey maybe this kid’ll win but probably not likely, but we still want to interview you to remind the world that District 3 exists.’ Gamma handles it well, but he sounds a little tired like he just wants his tribute to die and get it over with so he can return to his district.

And then it’s my turn.

“Elijah,” Caligula says. He pauses as though he needs to make sure that I am paying attention, and then he continues, “I really want to know—and I think I can speak for the viewers at home on this as well—what your thoughts are about Athena’s sister, Artemis, going to the arena. For those who can’t quite remember, Athena went against her Career pack and helped Elijah after the events of the shack.”

‘After the events of the shack.’

_After I was tortured and blinded and left for dead._

_As I marinated in my own blood and fluids and misery and pain, waiting for the leader of their pack to return and finish me off when he took a break from his mid-Games drunken festivities._

_Yet it was only her compassion that got me through it. The bit of humanity that Career had. She treated the worst of my wounds and unbound me from the chair. She didn’t expect me to escape because I was so broken, but I did._

Suddenly, I am back in the shack. Thoughts I had been trying so hard to suppress rush back in a vivid display of pain and color. And in the cruel way that fate has it, I can once again see, though my vision is blurred from the agony that sweeps through me in never-ending waves. My broken body strains against the ropes that bind me to the chair. Ahead of me, the District 2 male, Grant, paces back and forth.

And then, as quickly as I was launched into my memory, I am back. My vision vanishes, but the pain lingers behind, though diminished.

Caligula continues talking to me as though I never went anywhere at all, “When you heard that Artemis volunteered, what were your thoughts?”

“’Hope their family doesn’t mind another dead kid,’” I say bluntly. I try to shake off the ghostly sensation of residual pain, but it’s hard to do so without standing up and walking it off.

Caligula laughs, but it’s a nervous one. I hear Ferrer exhale and I know that he’s thinking that I’m only a few words into this interview and things are already going south. But maybe the Capitol shouldn’t have bothered to drag me out of the woodwork to ask me about this shit if they didn’t want to actually know my thoughts on it.

“So you don’t think that Artemis will be our victor?” the interviewer asks as he tries to smooth things over.

“You know, I’m actually cheering for my own tribute, James,” I say, barely suppressing the irritation that rises within me. I calmly fold my hands on the table and try to look like I don’t care too much about these questions. Of course I do and they know it. Every question Caligula gives is meant to bring the audience a little tingle of happiness at my expense, not to actually get information about my perspective on the Hunger Games.

“Yes, James does look like he might have a chance,” Caligula agrees. “He was pretty good at the reaping and at the parade. We’ll make sure to keep our eyes on him.”

That’s it, right? That’s the end of his questioning?—

My stomach twists when I hear Caligula’s voice again, and I know that there’s nothing remarkable about my tribute to talk about. They want to hear other things. More personal things. Things that won’t help James one damned bit in the arena.

“We recently heard news that your wife is pregnant,” the interviewer says. “And I have to say congratulations.”

“Thanks,” I respond. He’s fishing for more and would like me to go on about how joyous of an occasion this is. But they’re not entitled to know about my personal life. Not after what they’ve done to me.

After the briefest pause, he continues, “We were just _amazed_ and so proud of you when we heard about the news. Honestly, it’s just so amazing.”

“I’m not sure what’s amazing about it,” I say evenly. “Plenty of people have children. Our large population is a testament to that.”

“Of course, but you are different,” he says. His voice is full of awe and wonder. “I’m not even sure—”

“You know, Caligula, it’s my eyes that don’t work, not my penis, right?” I cut him off before he can get any further into how fantastic it is that a blind person can do basic things in life like procreate. From down the table, I hear Ferrer clear his throat in an attempt to warn me that I need to watch myself. But the anger that often accompanies these interviews has already taken hold, and it’s all I can manage to make sure that I don’t show it on my face or in my body language.

“Perhaps you’re a bit nervous about the news,” Caligula says. Once again trying to cover up my reaction. But it’s a live interview, and he can’t have the editing room cut out my response and have me start over as he has done many times in the past for interviews that would be shown later in the day. “Becoming a parent is a big thing. Anybody would be right to be a little overwhelmed.”

“I thought you wanted to ask me about the Hunger Games,” I say.

Caligula doesn’t have an answer right away for this. He didn’t want to ask me about my tribute, and he has no more things to say about him. His job was to pry out of my information about my unborn daughter so that the entire world could oooh and ahhh over this miracle of life.

“Oh we want to know all about you inside and outside the Hunger Games,” he laughs. “But I think we’ll have time to catch up more in our next interview. Let’s move on to Falcon. . . .”

Caligula begins questioning Falcon, victor of the 113th Hunger Games. I barely hear what they’re saying, though the gruff voice of the District 6 victor plays as background music to the chaos in my head. More interviews. More opportunity to have my personal business aired for the nation as their _right_ to know more about me. More time to stress about what sort of shit the Capitol will bring up and thrust into my lap on live television.

I force myself to crawl back to reality and grasp onto the conversation between the interviewer and Falcon, but it’s a challenge. Falcon doesn’t care much for interviews, but he at least has a little more tact than I do, and he answers the questions succinctly and without the sarcasm. I catch onto the tail end of the conversation and manage to hold on as the interview wraps up. And then Caligula thanks us all for being here and says that he looks forward to future interviews.

The moment that one of the members of the crew tells us that we’re no longer live, I jump to my feet, throw back my chair, and leave the room the way I came.


	8. Chapter 8

Ferrer finds me on an outdoor balcony of the hotel that overlooks the city streets many floors below. In my panic to escape, I managed to recognize the fact that going out the front door in my state would only draw cameras towards me, so I asked one of the bellhops where I’d go for the best view of the city. A few minutes to cool down, I told myself, and then I’d leave. But when I heard footsteps behind me, I knew that it wouldn’t be quite so simple.

“Every time I come to the Capitol, I hate that I leave my wife and children at home,” he says as he joins me at the edge of the balcony.

I lean into the railing as though I’m staring off at the river of cars that flows through the streets. But, of course, it’s all the same to me. The wind whips around us, cooling me off a little so I’m not as angry as I was in the interview. Not as terrified. My flashback of the shack seems like a dream now, no longer so vivid and real. Still, I don’t answer Ferrer.

Despite that it has been three years since I won, Ferrer likes to keep tabs on me. He acts as though I’m his responsibility to watch out for even when he has no obligation to do more than acknowledge my existence when necessary, and he takes this pretty seriously. From the moment that I heard Artemis volunteer in the reaping video we watched with our tributes on the train, I knew that he’d want to talk with me, and I guessed that at some point in the next few weeks while we’re in the Capitol, he’d make sure our paths crossed.

And what am I supposed to say? That I don’t want to talk with him about the girl he has who is going to die? That I am completely disturbed by the fact that she is here volunteering for the Hunger Games? We both knew it was going to happen and it was only a matter of time. She had been so sweet when we had met, but so damned determined that she was going to be a victor. It freaked me out, honestly.

“Do you want to talk, Elijah?” he asks in my silence.

“No,” I answer.

So we stand there for several minutes, neither of us saying anything. And yet as the time goes on, more and more thoughts only pile into my head. Thoughts of interviews. Thoughts of mentoring. Thoughts of my time in the arena. Ferrer likes to remind me that I leave myself open for further tasteless questions when I do poorly during an interview, and I know very well that this past interview wasn’t great. They brought up Artemis. They brought up the baby. They pretty much ignored my tribute. And, to add a bit of extra flavor to that horrible experience, I even thought I was back in the arena for a few long seconds. I shift uncomfortably and try to figure out how to rid myself of these pounding thoughts that assault my brain one after the other. And then I realize that maybe I _do_ want to talk despite my initial response.

“It was an accident,” I find myself saying.

“What you said at the interview?” he asks with skepticism. “I doubt that—”

“The pregnancy,” I interrupt. Nobody would ever call what I say at interviews as an ‘accident.’ Impulsive, maybe, but not accidental. I lick my lips and continue, not quite sure what I’m saying until each word comes from my mouth. “We weren’t planning it. Birth control failed and—this wasn’t what I wanted. I mean—it’s not that I _didn’t_ but—”

I shut myself up. No, no, this is too much personal information. I might like Ferrer well enough, but that doesn’t mean that I share these sorts of things with him. And, anyway, Ferrer is the master of procreation, so it’s not like he’d really understand what I’m saying anyhow. The words ‘birth control’ don’t exist in his vocabulary.

“The Capitol doesn’t care that—”

“Fuck. I _know_ they don’t care,” I snap.

He lets out a breath. “That’s not what I meant, Elijah,” he says. He gives me a second and then continues, “The Capitol doesn’t care whether it was accidental or intentional. You don’t have to tell them that it was an accident. In fact, I’d advise against it.”

I rub my forehead and try not to think too much about Ferrer’s useless advice. I am very well aware that I can spin it any way that I want, and I had no intention of telling everybody that I didn’t want this baby. Because obviously that would be the dumbest thing I could do, and I’d never desire my daughter to grow up thinking that I didn’t want her. I find that I don’t know how to express myself on this topic, nor do I really know if I want to try. Frustration builds in me, each concern another layer of bricks on a shaky foundation.

Saying anything was a mistake. I should have kept it to myself.

I push myself away from the railing.

“Glad we had this chance to talk, but I think I’m going to head out,” I say.

“Elijah, hang on a second,” Ferrer says before I make it more than a few steps.

“Oh, wait, you want to talk about Artemis before we leave so we can just get that out of the way, too?” I ask, turning back to him slightly.

Ferrer sighs. “There’s a table and chairs about ten feet behind you. Please go sit down and I’ll go get us coffee,” he says.

I hesitate. I want to leave, but I’m still in no condition to go downstairs. And Ferrer means well even if he’s kind of botching this up. Then again, so am I.

So I nod and turn around. Ferrer waits for a moment to make sure I’m not going to bolt for the door back to the hotel, and then he walks away. I locate the table and chairs and sit myself down in the first chair I come across.

The Capitol has a ridiculous number of hotels considering that very few people from outside the Capitol ever visit the city, and most who do are on some sort of work pass and wouldn’t be staying at places like this. Regular district residents aren’t allowed to mingle with the Capitolites after all. The only thing I can figure out is that people come to these hotels just to get away from their homes for a day or two, or maybe they come here to eat. The coffee Ferrer went to go get us probably is at a little kiosk right here on the balcony so any ‘tourists’ can have a beverage while enjoying the view.

The wind cools off the balcony, and I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to keep warm. When Ferrer comes with our coffees, places one in front of me, and gives a verbal description of where it is, I immediately pick it up and absorb its warmth between my hands. He gets himself settled in his chair, and then the two of us don’t say anything at all as we figure out how to restart this damned conversation.

“They will ask you about the baby and they will ask you about Artemis,” Ferrer says evenly as he breaks the silence between us. “We can talk about it so that you’re better prepared for the interviews.”

“I can handle it,” I say quickly.

Ferrer sets down his coffee on the table with a small _thump_. I’m sure he’s trying to convince himself that there’s no reason to strangle me for being so stubborn, but all he says is, “Like you did today?”

“I’m done with the interview, aren’t I?” I ask.

“Elijah. . . .” he begins tentatively but then he switches his tone entirely: “No, you’re not. They’re going to keep interviewing you until they get what they want and then some. So if you don’t want to keep being dragged out and shoved in front of the cameras like that, you need to give them what they want to hear so they’ll leave you alone.”

I rub my palm against the warmth of the coffee cup and convince myself to take a drink. It’s too hot, but I still take several sips despite my better judgement. The burning liquid slides down my throat.

Of course they’re going to keep interviewing me. They’ll do that even if I _do_ give them the information they desire. However, they will tear into me even more if I don’t open up at least a moderate amount. Which means that as much as I hate to admit it, Ferrer’s right. As usual. My stomach tightens at the thought of having to share what should be private with the people who cheered for my death not too long ago.

I nod. “Yeah, okay,” I say quietly.

“They’re going to want to know if you’ve chosen a name yet,” Ferrer continues once it’s clear I’m not going to be combatting his every word. “It doesn’t matter if you have or haven’t; you can tell them that you’re still deciding. Throw out a couple of names— _reasonable_ names, Elijah, because you don’t want to get a message from the Capitol telling you that they really liked some dumb name you chose and that it will be what’s on the birth certificate. Just keep them interested for awhile.”

And this is where Ferrer is actually helpful because he knows me too well. If placed in the position where I have to think up names to placate the audience, I would have grabbed onto the most ridiculous things I could find without even thinking that the Capitol could punish my insubordination by condemning my daughter to having a name like FJdkfjsjf or Chair or Hajile.

Once his words have a moment to sink in, he goes on, “They will want to know whether it’s a boy or a girl and whether there’s just one baby or multiple. Then they will also want to know when the baby is due, whether there are godparents chosen yet, whether you’re scared about this, and if the pregnancy is smooth and the baby is healthy.”

“Great,” I say. “I can answer maybe a quarter of those, and even fewer that I _want_ to answer.”

“I know, Elijah,” he says, barely keeping his exasperation at bay. “Which is why we’re talking about it now so that you don’t have to make something up on the spot. And they _will_ ask you about whether you were planning for this since you and Marie haven’t been married very long.”

At least, I tell myself, we’ve been married for over a year so there won’t be any questions about whether we married because I accidentally knocked her up. But that’s little consolation knowing that there are a plethora of other equally intrusive questions they can ask.

“They will want to know how you’re going to parent because you’re blind,” Ferrer says.

“Yeah of course,” I say. It’s inevitable that everything I do will be the subject of interest simply because I’m blind and there are so few blind people in the Capitol, but this goes well beyond curiosity. They want me to prove myself as a human. If today’s interview was any example, it’s clear that they think that I function in a sub-human state and anything vaguely normal I do is impressive. “Marie and I have started parenting classes with someone who works with visually impaired parents.”

“Great. Let them know that,” Ferrer says. I don’t say anything to this, and he adds, “It’s better that you tell them something factual like this than they feel that they have to pry more personal information out of you.”

“Yeah, I know,” I nod.

“I don’t know if it makes things any easier, but I get interviewed every time a kid comes along,” he says. “And at least we’re not women because the interviews I’ve seen with pregnant victors can get _really_ personal.”

“You’re on kid number twelve, right?” I ask.

He laughs. “Six. The twins were born this spring,” he says.

“Geeze, Ferrer, doesn’t District 2 have television?”

This only gets a bigger laugh from him. I don’t know if he finds what I said amusing or if there’s truth in it. Actually, I don’t want to know, so I’m appreciative when he doesn’t say anything further on the topic.

“Alright, well, tell me about some of the things that your parenting class has taught you,” he says.

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow.

“I want to get you talking about this so that when you have a camera in front of you, you don’t completely blank out,” he says.

So I humor him. We spend a minute or two talking about the things I’ve learned to do that probably no one else on the planet really has to think twice about. Despite the fact that I’ve been subjected to the Capitol’s nosy questions for three years now, every time I find myself in a position in which I’m forced to open up to them, I can’t help the discomfort that rises in me and morphs into hatred. Ferrer identifies a couple of things that I can tell them at the interview that are mundane enough that I’m not getting personal but that people will still find interesting.

“Let’s talk about Artemis now,” he says as the conversation winds down. I sit back in my chair and cradle the coffee against my chest as he continues, “I’m sorry. I know that you don’t want to talk about this at all, but you know that they’ll bring it up at any interview you have.”

“So what should I say?” I ask. “I know nothing about her. I have no interest in learning about her.”

Not entirely true. I met her a few times when I had been in District 2 with Ferrer and she’d come over in the afternoon to train. She had been so confident that she’d go to the Hunger Games and win that it had disturbed me more than I let on. The fact that her sister just died and she could very well die herself didn’t faze her, and she was eager to participate. We didn’t speak much; there wasn’t really anything for the two of us, different as we were, to talk about.

“They don’t want to ask you about her. Those are the questions they’ll send to me,” he says. “They want to know what your thoughts are on her. How you feel about her being in the arena, how your tribute will fare against her, and how you’re going to handle it all.”

“I’ll just tell them the usual bullshit,” I say.

“They will judge your tribute by every interview you give,” Ferrer says sternly. “Even if the conversation isn’t about him, they might penalize him if you’re not careful.”

I laugh humorlessly. “I think they’ll penalize him regardless,” I say. “Can’t have another District 5 victor so soon.”

“Says who?” Ferrer asks.

“They want a Career victor,” I say. But even as I say it, I question why Ferrer didn’t automatically agree.

“They’ve had two Career victors in a row,” he says. “I’m sure they’d love to have a third, but that doesn’t mean that they will.”

“And you think that District 5 has a chance? After I won when I wasn’t supposed to?” I demand.

“Maybe,” he says. “Do you really want to give up on your tribute without knowing for sure?”

“I’m not giving up,” I say sharply.

“No? Then take these interviews seriously,” he says. “Don’t be crass. Don’t be sarcastic. Just answer the damned questions and move on with your day.”

“Fine,” I snap.

To my relief, he doesn’t make me promise that I’ll follow his exact word. Maybe by now he knows that it’s impossible for me to guarantee that I won’t say something stupid in front of the cameras. It’s not that I’m intentionally trying to agitate the Capitol, but sometimes their questions are so fundamentally twisted that I can’t help but allow the first thing that pops into my head to pass through my mouth. In the past two Hunger Games, I haven’t had to worry about it much; there was no hope for District 5 in the Hunger Games, though I played along well enough until my tributes died. Now, though, to hear that Ferrer thinks there might be a chance. . . .

“Another thing you can do to help your tribute: come to the mentoring room,” he says. “Stop spending all your time by yourself.”

“I’m mentoring okay where I am,” I say, thrown off by the sudden turn in conversation. Who cares where I spend my time as long as I’m getting my job done?

“You might think so, but you also need to socialize with the other mentors,” he says. “See if you can find out some information about the other tributes while you’re at it. You can’t lock yourself away listening to audiobooks.”

“I can’t mentor my tribute if I don’t know anything,” I counter.

Ferrer exhales and doesn’t reply for a moment. When he does, it’s with heaviness: “I’m worried about you, Elijah. You’re isolating yourself from everybody. The last two years were rough for you, and part of it is because you insisted on trying to turn yourself into a walking encyclopedia of survival skills and shut the rest of us out in the process. You need to be around people more.”

“There are plenty of avoxes in the apartment,” I say, pretending that his words mean nothing to me even as they dig into my gut. “When I’m craving human interaction, I go find one of them and we just stand in the same room as each other completely unable to communicate. Works like a charm.”

“And you’re dealing with Solar okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie.

“You sure? Because after what she did to you—”

Irritation flares up within me and shoots through my body. Why the hell do we need to talk about Solar? Everybody knows that she tried to kill me, but Ferrer is one of the few people who knows the depth to which she sunk when I was a tribute and new victor. We don’t talk about it, but I’m already on edge from the rest of the conversation, and this topic pushes me over.

“After what? After she was a shitty mentor? Or after she tried to kill me?” I snap. “Or after she forced me to have sex with her?”

“All of it,” he answers.

“Does it matter?” I ask. “I still have to mentor with her.”

Ferrer says nothing. The wind moves around us, blocking out any noises from him that might give me information about what’s going through his head. Well, more than just the fact that I drive him mad.

“Elijah,” he says at last. “I know that we can’t do much and you’re stuck with her, but if there is anything that I can do to help you, you will tell me, right?”

I consider telling him to mind his own business, but I manage to restrain that angry part of me for the briefest of moments. Ferrer, as always, is trying to help. There are very few people in the Capitol who would do the same, and I can’t push him away when he’s trying to be supportive. Even if he can’t do shit to actually address the problem.

“Yes,” I answer.

That seems to satisfy him. He stands up and the chair scrapes against the concrete.

“I need to head back,” he says. “Are you coming?”

“No, I think I need a minute,” I say.

He hesitates and then says, “Come to the mentoring room sometime. If not for yourself then at least for your tribute.”

With that, he pushes his chair in and his footsteps disappear, replaced by the sound of the wind. I listen for another minute before I settle back in my chair and try not to think too much about our conversation or his parting words. But as things always seem to go, I also can’t get these thoughts out of my mind. I hate being in the mentoring room. It’s too loud, too busy, and too full of surging emotions that I can’t handle when I’m swamped in my own thoughts and fears. It’s easier for me to be away from everybody else. I can concentrate better and I don’t have to worry that people are paying me unnecessary attention without my knowledge. And, honestly, I don’t have to deal with any of their bullshit. I’ve gotten used to mentoring in my own solitude.

But if what he said is true and by keeping to myself I’m somehow damaging my tribute’s chance. . . . I run my hand up and down my coffee cup. It would be a pretty damned selfish reason for my tribute to die just because I am more comfortable alone than I am with others.

And . . . God, I am alone, aren’t I? Despite the avoxes, despite Wilton and Solar, despite the tributes. I’m surrounded by people, but I am completely alone.


	9. Chapter 9

Training wraps up for the day, and after he showers, James meets me in the mentoring room.

“How’d it go?” I ask him.

“Fine. Went to a few stations, spoke with a couple other tributes,” he says. And then he starts in with a bit more detail. Tells me what the exact stations were. Gives me a couple names of people. Lets me know what he’s learned so far.

Slowly James is beginning to open up to me, and although I should be appreciative of this, I can’t help but think it would be easier if he kept himself closed off from me. Then when he dies I won’t be quite so attached to him. But I know that’s not how it works. This year will be just as terrible as the past two years. I’ll hold myself together well enough to make it home where I’ll lock myself away from my family and try to convince myself that life is worth living. Meanwhile, Marie will find the spare key and ignore my desire to be alone and try to console me while I try to pretend that everything’s okay and she doesn’t need to worry about me.

But at least I can use his openness to my advantage.

“James, why did you used to fight so much?” I ask him casually. I lean back into the couch and listen for his reaction. Not just his words but also the way he shifts around uncomfortably. When it sounds as though he’s not going to open up for an answer, I continue, “I’m not here to judge. I need you to tell me about yourself. I can help you figure out how to approach the arena, but not if I don’t know much about you.”

He draws in a deep breath and the cushions of his couch squeak slightly as he adjusts himself.

“I’ve run away a few times. Lived on the streets a little,” he says. “Even when I was in a home, I didn’t always get along with my foster parents or the other kids living there. Just learned to fight over the years.”

A foster kid. Tumultuous home life and upbringing. Bad for one’s mental health but might be useful for the arena.

“You’ve been in a lot of different homes?” I prod.

“Yes,” he answers. “Eleven. Not including my mom’s.”

Shit. Eleven different places he’s called ‘home,’ if he could even call it that. And then if life wasn’t shitty enough, he gets thrust into the Hunger Games.

“So your parents are still alive, then?” I clarify.

“Don’t know about my dad. My mom is, but I’ve been taken out of her care several times.”

He’s quiet then, and I wonder if he’s ever told this to anyone. Eleven homes and a completely unstable mother. Clearly there’s a lot more to unpack here, but I only need what I require to help him with the Hunger Games. And, unfortunately, I’ll have to do more prying.

“Do you have any family with whom you’re on good terms?” I ask. No use trying to sugarcoat this right now. Not that I’m trying to be disrespectful.

He taps his fingers against the arm of the chair and thinks for a minute. “No,” he finally answers. “Why do you need to know this information?”

“Because we have to work on a strategy for how to present you,” I say. “It wouldn’t do any good for you to go on stage and tell everyone how much you’ll miss your family if you have none.”

James stands up suddenly. I blink at the sudden movement. Footsteps follow, but he doesn’t leave. Instead he paces back and forth in the small room. Then he stops as though he’s realized that there’s not really anywhere _to_ pace.

“Elijah. . . .” he finally says from somewhere off to my left. But he doesn’t get the next words out right away. Instead he returns to his seat and sits down again. “I know that I don’t come from the best background, but I don’t want to die.”

His words take the breath out of me. Of course he doesn’t want to die. No kid wants to die regardless of their background. There’s the pain that precedes the arena in which you think about your family and friends at home and all that you’re leaving behind. You think that maybe if you didn’t have that connection then maybe it would be easier to go forward with this. But it’s not. Death is death. Dying for the Capitol’s entertainment is still humiliating and pointless even if you have nobody rooting for you at home.

When I don’t answer right away, he continues, his words getting more and more excited as he speaks, “I know that I can do this, or at least I’ll give it a good shot. I don’t have the training that the Careers do, but you said it yourself—if I can keep a good head on my shoulders, then it doesn’t matter. I—”

“Wait, hang on,” I interrupt him. “You don’t need to sell me on this. I’m your mentor. I don’t want you to die any more now than I did a few minutes ago, okay? But we do need to think of strategy and how you want to present yourself at the interview.”

“Will they know this information?” he asks skeptically. “Or can I just pretend that all’s good?”

“They might not know right away, but they’ll figure it out soon enough,” I answer. “The Capitol is very good at digging up shit about people. And during the Top Eight interview, they traditionally interview family members, so if there’s no one who immediately comes up as your family, that will draw attention, too.”

“Shit,” he says.

“Hey. We’ll figure it out,” I assure him.

“No, it’s just that—” he laughs dryly. “I really don’t want my mom interviewed, you know?”

“No, I don’t,” I answer carefully.

He stands up again, but this time he doesn’t pace around. It sounds like maybe he moved behind his chair and is leaning against it judging by the light squeak of leather.

“She likes drugs more than me,” he says.

Right, okay. Not going to be able to have him stand on stage and tell everyone how much he misses his family.

“What about your current foster parents?” I ask.

“Well, they’re probably trying to figure out if their paycheck stopped the day of the reaping or if they at least get it through when I die,” he says bitterly.

“Lovely people,” I mutter. Yes, this will be challenging. But if James’ reported skills are true, once he’s in the arena, he’ll go from a nobody to a somebody. And then it doesn’t matter a whole lot what sort of garbage his foster parents or biological mother are.

A challenge with mentoring when you’re not sure how to proceed is that you know you’re on your own with this. And I know that’s how the Capitol has structured it so that we victors can never truly consider each other ‘friends’ when we’re always competitive to keep our tributes alive, but it’s still damned frustrating that I can’t go get somebody’s second opinion on how to handle this. Sure, after this Hunger Games end, I could probably throw around a few ideas with some of the others just in case I happened to have another foster kid who could fight in future Hunger Games, but it will do nothing to help the situation now. To make sure James gets the best shot, I need to strategize on my own and make sure that it’s not just good but the best.

 _Like in soccer,_ I tell myself. But that falls through because we always worked together as a team to come up with plans, and those were normally short plays that ended within a minute or two, not something I’d have to maintain for days, maybe weeks. No, there’s nothing that compares to the Hunger Games, and that’s the way the Capitol likes it.

“I will think about this and figure out a way to present yourself to the Capitol,” I say. “Tomorrow is your last day of training, and the following day we will discuss your interview strategies. In the meantime, let’s talk about arena themes and survival skills.”

James agrees to this. Perhaps I’ve given him the smallest bit of hope that his history isn’t an issue. It really shouldn’t be, but what should and shouldn’t happen don’t matter much in the eyes of the Capitol, and we’ll have to make sure to proceed carefully so the viewers at home find his situation more interesting than not.

The good news, though, is that James is eager to learn. He seems to absorb and process everything I say very quickly and can turn it around to ask questions or look for other options. There’s no way this kid is going down without a fight, and it only gives me foolish hope that maybe District 5 will have a new victor.


	10. Chapter 10

James returns to his bedroom to pull himself together for dinner, and I stand up and head to the hallway. Before I have a chance to think about the mentoring meeting or how I’m going to handle James, the door to the other mentoring room flies open and nearly hits me. I jump out of the way just in time as Maggie comes barreling past, sobbing hysterically. She staggers down the hallway and then I hear another door slam shut. Sounds like her bedroom.

I grit my teeth. Hard to figure out what set her off.

Anger sloshes through me as I grab onto the door that Maggie had just thrown open. I step inside but don’t bother closing the door because I don’t plan on being in here very long.

“What did you tell her?” I demand.

Solar tsks and says, “She is just very upset about her future prospects.”

Every tribute is upset about future prospects unless they’re dumb enough to think they will win, yet most manage to suppress those sorts of emotions until something pushes them over the edge. Knowing Solar, she found it appropriate to remind Maggie just what her future has in store for her.

“You can’t even muster up the humanity to show some sort of compassion to your tributes, can you?” I demand. My fingers clench the doorframe as I try to stabilize myself before I go off on her. I manage to hold myself back, but just barely.

“Mmm, Elijah, year after year you’ll do this, and you’ll come to realize that it doesn’t matter what you tell them because they’re just going to die,” she says, her voice growing closer as she walks towards me. “There’s no harm in being realistic, is there?”

She stops right in front of me. I feel her warmth in my personal space. And then her hand on mine. Before I can snap my hand away, she’s peeling my fingers off the doorframe.

“You’re so fond of the truth until it’s no longer convenient for you,” she says quietly, withdrawing her hand once mine is no longer on the wooden frame. “Then you try to pretend like any of these kids have a chance. Such a fool, Elijah.”

“I’d rather be a fool than a piece of shit like you,” I say evenly.

Her hand is on my shoulder then, and she presses gently. I step backwards and out of the way more to get away from her grasp than to make room for her to pass. But she steps by me regardless and pauses.

“Would you? There’s no room for fools in the Capitol—they’ll kill her, you know. Her and the baby, if you’re not careful,” she says, and then she disappears.

I can’t respond to that, even if she had expected me to say anything. Was that another warning? When I was a new victor, Solar had given me vague warnings about moving my family into victor village. I had disregarded her since I thought that she was just being a terrible person, but then my parents and little sister were killed because I ignored those warnings. So has Solar been sent to give me another warning? Or is she just punching me where she knows that it will hurt the most? My stomach twists and I force myself to breathe evenly in order to clear my mind. But even as I regain the ability to think more rationally, I can’t stop the fear and anger that intertwine within me and wrap around my lungs.

Finally I push myself away from the doorway. God only knows where Solar went; she might be just down the hall drinking in my reaction.

But instead of joining the others for dinner, I find myself pausing outside of the bedroom door of the female tribute. Once, several years ago, Ilana had stayed here. No, I can’t think about her. She’s gone. Dead like the other tributes. Dead like Maggie will be.

I raise my fist and rap on the door.

For a moment, nothing happens. But at last the girl opens the door. I hear her labored breathing soaked with tears.

She hiccups and then says, “What do you want?”

“I want to talk with you,” I say.

“I don’t want to talk with anyone,” she answers flatly.

“I know. I just—What did she tell you?” I ask.

Maggie sighs and for a second she’s quiet. Then she says in a whisper, “Sorry, I forgot you couldn’t see. Can you come in?”

“If we leave the door open,” I answer.

Maggie retreats further into the room. I make my way in after her and find myself near the dresser. Again, the layout of these rooms doesn’t change between years, so it’s not surprising that I’ve managed to locate one of the more prominent pieces of furniture in here. Same as it was when Ilana was the occupant of this room.

“She said that I’m going to die,” the girl tells me. “I know I am, but I didn’t expect her to say it. And not like _that._ ”

I don’t answer. Of course she told her something like that. It’s true, but also so cruel. I chew on the inside of my cheek as I contemplate what the hell I’m supposed to say to that. I’m not this girl’s mentor. It’s not my responsibility to console her when things get shitty, and I can’t do something that may give Maggie an advantage when it means that it’s at the expense of James.

But if I don’t do it, then she’s going to die completely hopeless and alone. I lean against the dresser, rest my cane against my leg, and cross my arms over my chest.

“She said the same thing to me, too,” I admit. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why, but that’s the tactic she uses for mentoring. She might be trying to toughen you up.”

She’s not, but I also don’t want to tell Maggie that her mentor is a sociopath.

“Is she going to try to kill me in the arena?” she asks. Her voice trembles but is oddly calm besides that. Maybe it’s setting in how real death is.

“Probably not,” I say. Again, I have no idea if it’s true or not, but I have to pick my words carefully. “I think that was a one-time thing that she could try. After that it would become predictable.”

“Okay,” the girl says with a little more confidence. And in that one word, I’m reminded strangely of Ilana. Ilana as she tried to come to terms with what was happening and that she had to be brave with the challenges she faced. I don’t know why; maybe it’s being in this room. I swallow hard to suppress the emotions that try to well up with the sudden recollection of my district partner and focus on the girl in front of me.

The girl takes a deep breath and says, “Can you be my mentor?”

“Maggie. . . . No, I’m sorry,” I answer. The words sound so wrong coming from my mouth. This girl doesn’t have a chance if she’s been given Solar as a mentor. It’s like I’ve denied a starving girl a morsel of food, and yet I know that I can’t give in no matter how much my gut tells me that I’m killing her by saying no.

“I don’t care if you give James more attention,” she pleads. “I completely understand that, but please? I can’t stand Solar.”

I close my eyes and rub my forehead not sure what the hell to say to her at this point. My chest aches with the heaviness of the words I speak.

“No, it’s not allowed,” I tell her. But how exactly do I really convince her of this? How do I tell this girl who just wants a shot at living that she has to stay with her psychotic mentor and not have a fair chance? Not that any of this is fair. It’s not, but you can somewhat convince yourself that it might be if you have a decent mentor.

“Please?” she whispers. I hear the tears in her voice. “I won’t tell anyone.”

No no no! Everything in me wants to tell her yes, and yet I know that I can’t. And each passing moment only presses a greater weight on my chest. My lungs constrict. I force myself to breathe. Evenly. Carefully. Can’t have a panic attack here. Not now. Not in front of this tribute who is begging me to help save her life. But as I struggle to regain control of myself, my heart beats rapidly and I’m terrified that I won’t be able to hold on.

“I can’t,” I manage. “I’m-I’m so sorry. I can’t. It really isn’t allowed.”

“But if we tell them how terrible she is—”

“No!” I snap before I can pull myself together. I take another breath. It’s not working, but I push through the rising sensation of drowning. I can’t manage to apologize for my tone. All I can say is, “Nobody can know. It will reflect poorly on you, and then you won’t have a chance.”

“So they just let mentors get away with saying anything they want?”

“Yes,” I say.

I need to get out of here. My lungs won’t expand anymore. My head feels fuzzy. Words cease to have meaning, and I can hear Maggie say something else, but I have no idea what it is. Then her hand is on my sleeve, and I break through myself enough to hear her say, “Are you okay?”

No. I’m not. My lungs burn like somebody has rubbed them raw with sandpaper. My ribs grow tighter and tighter by the moment. My thoughts begin to merge and fade into nothing, and before I lose it all entirely, I sputter out, “Excuse me.”

But it takes me another moment to take a step forward. Something thumps on the ground behind me, but I ignore it and stagger towards the door.

To the hallway.

To my bedroom.

Close the door behind me.

I fall on the ground, gasping for air through my dry, ragged throat.

Can’t breathe.

Can only think that I have just left this girl to die alone.

Left her alone with Solar as she begs me for help.

I try to tell myself there was nothing I could do, but that’s a lie.

It’s all a lie.

_Breathe._

I can’t.

I press my hand against the floor and focus on my palm against the carpet. The thick fibers are soft against my skin, and I dig my fingers into them. Hold on.

_Breathe._

This time my lungs expand a little. Ever so slightly. But it’s enough. Once I know that I can breathe again, I can slowly feel my lungs filling up a little more. It takes several minutes before I am once more in control of myself. I wipe the tears off my cheeks and stare blankly up at the ceiling.

But I don’t move. I can’t bring myself to sit up, find my cane, and move on with life. I _know_ that Maggie will die. So will James. I _know_ that there is no use denying Maggie the help she needs because it’s not like it’s really going to hurt James. And yet—and yet I can’t take that risk. I’ll let Maggie suffer because it might, oh it just _might_ , screw over James if I try to give her a hand.

I roll over onto my side and run my hand through the carpet, letting my fingers play with the silky fibers.

This is our reward for living. A lifetime of suffering and misery. And here I am willing to do anything to keep my tribute alive so that he can endure this for all eternity, too.


	11. Chapter 11

I’ve managed to pick myself off the floor and clean myself up by the time I hear a knock on the door. Damnit, I think, tell me that they didn’t wait for me for dinner. Nothing like having a breakdown and being expected to be a functional member of society while everyone stares at you because they know what happened but no one will dare say anything because it wasn’t _supposed_ to happen.

But when I open the door, I don’t find Wilton chattering at me that I need to be more punctual. Instead it’s James.

“You forgot your cane in Maggie’s room,” he says to me. “Here.”

I reach out, and a moment later feel the cold stick of metal in my hand. Once it’s in my possession, my fingers easily find the handle. I wonder how much of that conversation James heard. I did leave the door open after all, and it’s not like I could see James even if he were right there with us. He wasn’t, of course; otherwise I would have heard him. But he might have been lingering in the doorway listening in and I’d be none the wiser.

“Thank you,” I say.

James murmurs a “you’re welcome,” but it’s seems to be instinctual more than intentional. I sense that there’s something unspoken and consider asking him what’s wrong, but I don’t think I can deal with any more shit today. Sorry if that screws him over, but it’s better than I just completely flip out because I can’t handle any more.

Instead, however, James says, “Is Solar really that bad?”

“That depends on who’s asking,” I say.

“It’s just me here, if that’s what you mean,” James replies.

Good enough.

“Yes,” I answer.

“And no one does anything about it?” he asks.

“Nope. Nothing that anyone can do,” I say. “The people who run this gig don’t care much about ethics, otherwise we wouldn’t be in this mess, so it’s not like complaining will do anything more than get the wrong people in trouble.”

James breathes evenly. I think the conversation is done, but then he says, “You can help Maggie. As long as you’re still my mentor and you’re not telling her things about me or anything that’s supposed to be kept secret, I’m okay if you help her.”

He—what?

No, he has no idea what he’s saying. If he did, then he’d understand that by helping her, I’ll be damaging him. I hesitate and then finally manage, “Thank you, James. But it’s—”

“Either I’m going to die or I’m not,” he cuts me off. “If I die, maybe Maggie will have a chance if you help her. And if I live, well I don’t want to know that I had the opportunity to do something to help her and didn’t take it.”

(I appreciate the irony that I ended up with a tribute with more morals than sense.)

James has a chance of winning, but his willingness to help his district partner might end in his death. 

Yet it didn’t work out that way for me, did it? I still lived despite helping Ilana. Or, perhaps, _because_ I helped Ilana.

But what the hell do I say to this? I can’t help Maggie. That will just screw things over for James. This is more than a tribute allying with someone seemingly weaker than him. This is a mentor picking up the slack for another mentor who won’t give her tribute the time of day. Anger pours through me in a sudden deluge, and I struggle to contain it. But I’m so weary that I eventually give in and allow it to wash through me, and even then it trickles away, unable to be contained within me. I’m left feeling more empty than anything else.

I won’t fight it. But I won’t let James make this decision without being somewhat educated about reality.

“There are going to be plenty of things you’ll regret if you live,” I say to him. “Maybe at Maggie’s expense.”

“I know. It’s the Hunger Games, I get it,” he says. “I understand that. But it hasn’t started yet, so if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to help her.”

“I’m limited in what I can do,” I say.

“Yeah. But you could still tell her how to find water in a desert or how to build a fire,” he points out. “That’s nothing that is mentor-specific, right?”

The Hunger Games are going to completely destroy this kid before they kill him.

“Alright,” I say. “I will spend some time with the both of you in addition to our private mentoring.”

I hear the smile in James’ voice when he says, “Great, thanks.”

Nothing great and there is no need to thank me. Not when this’ll come back to bite him in the ass sooner rather than later. I listen for his retreating footfall, but only hear his breathing instead.

“Anything else?” I ask, trying not to make it sound like I’m kicking him out of here but actually really wanting him to leave.

“No, I’m good,” he says. Something lingers beneath his words and I know that he has more to say but has decided to keep it to himself. “But I think it’s time for dinner.”

“Okay, thanks,” I say, and he finally retreats. I close the door and lean against it, pressing my body against the solid surface.

There’s no room for tributes to be polite to each other in the Hunger Games. Ilana and I were the exceptions. . . .

Again, can’t think of her. Have to keep moving. Going forward with the motions and all that. I take a deep breath, adjust the cane in my hand, and open the door. Dinner has, indeed, been stalled because of us (me in particular), but nobody says anything when I come and join them at the table.

As we eat, I go over survival skills with the tributes. Solar gives her input every now and again, but it’s more to just pretend she’s helping than anything. Both tributes eagerly ask questions about how they should address certain situations in various environments and I tell them what I know. Fortunately I have spent so much time listening to audiobooks about this crap that I’m not just pulling out of my ass.

Every now and again, Wilton butts into the conversation to tell us completely useless things. Or sometimes what he says is extremely disturbing, such as, “Remember to drink plenty of water. Do you remember that one boy, Solar, a few years back? He didn’t drink enough water. Withered away before our eyes. Sorry thing to watch.” It’s not the words as much as the complete lack of concern for the death and suffering.

When dinner ends, Solar excuses herself. “Looks like you’ve got things handled here,” she says to me with amusement. She moves towards the elevator and I hear the ding as it arrives on the floor. “See you guys later.”

That’s it. She’s gone. And now I have two tributes on my hands. I bristle at her callousness and grasp the napkin in my hand. I twist it between my palms to keep myself from saying something scathing.

“Did she just leave me?” Maggie asks quietly once Wilton is occupied with ordering a few avoxes around.

“Yes,” I say. “Again, part of her strange tactics.”

But we both know I’m lying through my teeth. Solar saw that I had taken some responsibility in Maggie, and she decided to let me deal with the burden of both of them. Which completely screwed over my plans to help James tonight. I know this is a mistake to take on two tributes, and yet it doesn’t quite seem that way. . . . So the three of us head to the sitting room where we sit in front of the silent television and discuss more survival skills. James never once makes Maggie feel like she’s intruding. Is that part of his strategy, or is he really that genuinely nice of a guy?

At night, I lie in the large bed by myself and try to turn off my churning brain. But the thoughts keep cranking through my mind like they’re driven by an evil machine, and I can’t manage to convince myself that sleep is in my best interest. I consider taking sleeping pills, but by the time I remember that I have them, it’s too late and I’m afraid I won’t wake up in a timely manner come the morning.

I miss Ilana.

Maggie reminds me of her so much as she struggles with her shitty situation. Trying to be brave in the face of a cold and detached mentor is challenging, and yet Maggie is dealing with it pretty well. She’s not exactly like Ilana, of course; I don’t think my district partner would have asked another mentor to help her. She would have just accepted her situation and worked with what she had been given.

But Ilana is dead now.

And Maggie will be, too. It’s only a matter of time.

I can’t focus on two tributes. It’s going to hurt like hell when one dies, and I don’t think I can manage the burden of two of them being murdered.

Damn Solar. She knew perfectly well what she was doing, and now I’ve walked right into whatever strange trap she’s laid. Why do your own work when you can get someone else to do it for you? Especially when the results will be the same? Especially when that other person will pick up the suffering for you?

I never told Ilana how shitty my mentor was. It was too much for her to bear at the time, especially because Solar wanted me to abandon her to be killed in the bloodbath so that I’d get pity sponsors. I didn’t, of course, and then I just incurred Solar’s anger and a quaint little vial of poison for my troubles.

My arms clutch a pillow to my chest and I squeeze it in the hopes of trying to calm myself down, if only a little. I try to think of home and I pretend I’m there, but instead all I can think is that Ilana was Marie’s best friend, and Marie’s probably going through the horror of losing her just like she does every year. But this time with an added responsibility of taking care of herself and the baby.

I can’t sleep. Can’t stop thinking.

Maybe I’m being selfish, but I roll over and find my cell phone on my desk and dial Marie’s number. Cradling the phone to my ear, I listen to it ring.

 _“Hello?”_ comes her groggy voice. Shit, I woke her up. Of course I woke her up. It’s late for me here and it’s even later over there. Yes, I’m being selfish, and yet I crave her voice and cling to the phone as I yearn to hear more.

“Hi, Marie, love?” I say.

_“Elijah! Is everything alright?”_

“Yes, I’m so sorry to wake you,” I say quickly. “I just wanted to hear your voice. I forgot what time it was.”

 _“It’s okay. I don’t care about the time. It’s good to hear from you,”_ she says, and she sounds like she genuinely means it.

“How is everything going at home?” I ask.

She laughs and says, _“You’ve only been gone for two days. Things are fine here. . . .”_ But despite that, she starts talking about the great dinners George and Grandpa have been making for her, and how Marty got into a skirmish with a squirrel (she adds quickly that both ended up alright), and that she has a routine doctor’s appointment in a few days so George is going to drive her.

I curl back up on the bed and hold the pillow against me as I listen to her. If I can ignore the slick piece of plastic pressed against my ear, I can almost imagine that I am at home in bed with her right now and she’s telling me about her day. It’s so blissfully free of the Hunger Games, and I know that what she’s saying is only a half-truth written in a manner that neither of us have to think about what’s really going on. Sure, she’s been eating well and Marty really got into that fight, but she leaves out how much time they’re spending stressing about what’s happening to me or worrying about the tributes or fearing what the Capitol has in store this Hunger Games. She leaves off how she’s wracked by nightmares because she can’t stop thinking about Ilana, and she misses her best friend so badly that she starts crying whenever she’s reminded of the stupid things they used to do together. Instead it’s just so damned innocent that I don’t ever want to hang up the phone.

But I hear the sleep in her voice. The initial excitement (and fear) when I called has worn off and now she’s drifting back into sleep.

So when there’s a bit of a lull in the conversation, I say, “I should let you go. I love you and sleep well.”

 _“I love you, too, Eli,”_ she says. _“Please call me again soon, okay?”_

“Yes, I will,” I answer. We both linger on the phone for another couple seconds, and then I disconnect the phone call.

The silence that remains brings me back to reality, and I know that no matter how hard I try to hold onto it, whatever happiness I received from speaking with Marie on the phone won’t last long. I set the phone back on the end table next to my bed, settle into the blankets, and close my eyes.


	12. Chapter 12

In the morning, I talk with the tributes about their private training sessions over breakfast. I don’t go into much detail with Maggie, and she doesn’t appear to be offended when I take James into a mentoring room to discuss some ideas with him. Again, I remind him, he doesn’t want to look absolutely pathetic and make himself a target, but he also doesn’t want to show his full skill set. We don’t have much time to talk before Wilton’s knocking at the door telling James that it’s time to go to training. James thanks me, and he and Maggie follow Wilton down to the training room.

And then I’m forced with a decision: do I stay here and continue to study up on the things I need to know, or do I go waste time in the mentoring room in order to be ‘sociable’ like Ferrer wants me to be? In the end, I know that I can’t push off the mentoring room much longer, so I head to the elevator and press the call button.

Footsteps join me, and I know that Solar is by my side.

“How is mentoring going?” she asks sweetly.

“I could ask you the same,” I reply.

The elevator arrives and the doors open. I step inside, and of course Solar joins me.

In order to reach the mentoring room, one must take this elevator to the ground floor and then follow one of the many hallways to yet another elevator. There’s no way to access it from this main elevator since this elevator’s purpose is only to transport tributes, mentors, and staff up and down to the various apartments. You wouldn’t want tributes or staff to accidentally end up in the mentoring room, right? So it’s a long ride from the fifth floor to the ground floor. Neither of us say anything, but I know that Solar is silently gloating that she has managed to hurt me once more.

The doors open and I step out. My cane sweeps in front of me to make sure the area is clear, but it’s almost pointless. The avoxes keep the lobby of the Training Center completely spotless. Chemicals to clean and candles to try to cover the scent.

“See you later then,” I say to Solar as a formality than anything else.

“Oh, who says I’m going anywhere,” she says. “I thought I’d go to the mentoring room today.”

I freeze. If she’s going, I’m not going. End of story. Sorry to James, but I can’t help him at all if Solar is present.

“Don’t you have some fine upstanding Capitol citizens to sleep with?” I ask sharply.

She laughs. “Yes, you’re right,” she says. “And anyway, the mentoring room is so boring. You know what I mean, though. If you want, I can find you someone to—”

“Bye,” I say, and I start walking again. I force myself to move at a reasonable pace and not book it away from Solar as fast as I can. She had no intention of going to the mentoring room; she just wanted to see my reaction, and she got a good one. If she says anything to me as I retreat, I don’t notice. I head into the hallway and it’s only once I’m at the elevator and press the call button that I allow myself to calm down.

The mentoring room buzzes with life as victors move back and forth and talk easily with each other. Since we’re on our third day of training, mentors have already said their hellos and become re-acquainted with each other. Not exactly my cup of tea to listen to people greet each other like it’s a joyous reunion and then plunge into conversation about kids murdering one another.

I find my seat after nearly bumping into only two people. Impressive considering the activity and chaos in here. Once I’m in the chair, I run my hands over the faux leather armrests and tell myself to take a breath or two and calm down. I’m here; I don’t have any obligation to talk with anyone or join them in conversation.

As I did a couple days ago, I turn on the monitor and scan through the information. It’s all the exact same as it was which doesn’t surprise me. Tonight when the training scores are released, that will be updated as well. And in two days’ time when the interviews are done, we’ll have a bit more information. But until the Hunger Games themselves begin, the screens will remain relatively the same.

Lady plops down in Solar’s empty chair and says good morning. “It’s nice to see you again,” she says.

“Hey,” I answer. “How’s it going?”

“Just trying to get some things squared away,” she replies. “Telling myself that it’s only a couple weeks out of the year and then life goes back to normal.”

Right. Normal except with more dead kids.

District 10 has had a few more wins than District 5 in the past handful of decades, and yet Lady seems to be mentoring more often than not. I wonder if her mentors are just as eager to pawn the duties off on their newest victor, or if somehow this is the luck of the draw. I never ask. That’s the sort of thing that we don’t bring up in conversation.

I hear a tapping noise coming from her direction. I don’t think she’s tapping the desk; she might be picking at the keyboard. Hard to tell and doesn’t really matter.

“Well if District 5 has the luck it had the last couple years, guess I’ll be out of this sooner rather than later,” I say.

“Don’t sound so happy about that,” she answers.

“I’m not,” I reply flatly. “I’m just stating a fact. But hey, who all is in the mentoring room?”

Lady shifts and the chair grunts beneath her as she pushes away from the table. Seconds pass, and then she returns her attention to me and says, “Almost everyone. I think Terra and Phoenix have stepped out, and I don’t see Demeter yet. Jenna went into the lounge.”

The Capitol decided to provide us a ‘break’ from mentoring and supplied the victors our own lounge that’s attached to this room. Mostly it’s just couches, food, and alcohol, but they conveniently provided us televisions that don’t turn off. Mercifully they’re muted most of the time so that we don’t have to hear the annoying voices of Caligula Klora, the interviewer, or Janice Lovely, the Hunger Games announcer, blare at us nonstop for the next couple weeks. Of course they’ve also given us our own bathrooms so that we don’t need to leave the area and potentially mingle with the staff. We’re all corralled together in this one part of the Training Center where we have to face each other for days or weeks and try not to get too comfortable in each other’s presence while our tributes are fighting to the death.

I lean back in my chair and run my hands over my keyboard that I rarely, if ever, use. Despite the little braille letters and numbers on it, I have never been comfortable enough to type with it. And, anyway, I’m not sure what the hell I’d be typing when everything can be completed through the monitor or, if push comes to shove, voice commands through the monitoring device they’ll give me when the Hunger Games begin.

“Oh, here comes Ferrer,” Lady says under her breath.

I try to pick his footsteps out of the chaos, but it’s challenging. Although listening to how people walk is a good indicator of who approaches me, the noise and voices within the room make it difficult to discern who is walking over here. Without Lady’s warning, I wouldn’t have noticed.

“Glad you decided to join us,” Ferrer says.

“Couldn’t let the party go on without me,” I say without emotion.

“Good,” he says. “Lady, how are you doing today?”

“I’m doing fine. How are you?” she replies, and the two of them exchange a few more pleasantries until Ferrer excuses himself.

I turn back to my computer but Lady says, “He just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

“Neat,” I answer.

“Really, Elijah. Well . . . I won’t harp on you,” she says. “I’ll leave that for Ferrer and Pitch.”

“You’re so benevolent,” I answer.

She laughs. “I know,” she says. “Okay, I should be getting back to my station. My tribute is entering an alliance with Jenna’s tribute, and it looks like Jenna is back.”

Lady stands up and walks away.

James won’t be entering an alliance. He already told me that he has no interest. But I wonder if it would do him good to at least _try_ to be in an alliance with someone, especially if he is trying to pretend that he’s completely average. Average people do alliances. It’s only the really good ones or the really stupid ones who decide to go it alone. It might be too late to form an alliance since the next couple days James will be in the District 5 apartment rather than in the training room, but I should check in with him on that.

If I weren’t so distracted last night with Maggie, maybe I could have had this discussion yesterday so he could find an alliance today, I think. But I can’t let my thoughts of the past twist me up or I won’t be able to focus on the present.

This is what’s shitty: as much as I’d like to take up Ferrer’s request and tell him about how terrible Solar is, I know I can’t because there’s literally nothing anyone can do. What I told James is the truth: nobody cares how bad the mentors are as long as they appear to be doing their job. Otherwise we’d all figure out a way to get out of mentoring by pretending to be hopeless with our tributes. And if I tell Ferrer about the situation, it would be cutting into what is supposed to be kept personal between mentors and tributes; he’d know that there was something stupid going on in our apartment, and he could use that information to help his tribute. As he probably should since his goal, like all of our goals (except for Solar’s of course), is to give our own tributes the best chance we can, even if it means that it’s at the expense of someone else.

Another person enters the room, and then there’s a bit of commotion from the District 1 mentors. I realize after listening for a few moments that some of the non-mentoring victors have joined in to wish Hammer and Isolde good luck and impart on them a few wise words.

“Just ignore them,” comes Falcon’s voice to my side.

I forgot he was here, and I turn slightly so I can hear him better.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“Just ignore the Careers,” he says. “They’re obnoxious like this every year, and with two wins in a row, they’re even more annoying than ever. Mind your own business and they won’t bother you.”

“I’m not concerned about them bothering me,” I say. But because I sound too defensive with that, I add, “It’s just loud in here.”

Falcon says nothing, and I can only assume that the conversation is over.

Time drags by. I have no desire to socialize and it’s not like I can appreciate the sights, so I just sit there at my computer station and listen to people come and go. People speak of alliances and I find out that the District 6 girl and the District 11 girl are going to be in an alliance. Obviously I can’t see what these kids look like, but when I put on my headphones and choose their profiles from the computer, I receive a verbal description of the two of them. It would be nicer if I could actually use my own judgement to determine whether the District 6 girl has a ‘permanent scowl’ or if the District 11 girl really has a ‘hawkish glint in her eyes’ but what can you do. Ferrer once told me that I should be happy the Capitol gives me this assistive technology in the first place, but we both know that the only reason they do is so they can show it off and pat themselves on the back for a job well done.

More time passes. I don’t bother keeping track because I’ll only stress about how I could be elsewhere doing better things with my time. Finally somebody sits down in the chair next to me. I ignore the newcomer until she forces me to engage with her.

“My tribute’s taken an interest in yours,” says Terra of District 12.

Nothing against Terra, but from what little I know of the District 12 girl, she’s not going to be make it very far in this Hunger Games. I hate myself for even thinking this because I know I’m just playing into the Capitol’s hands, but if James wants to win, he can’t ally with scrawny little kids who can’t hold their own. It requires effort to suppress these automatic thoughts so that I can at least pretend to be a decent human being.

“Well, my tribute has not mentioned an alliance,” I answer evenly. “Tell me what you know.”

“My tribute, Heather, spoke with me yesterday and said that she was going to talk with James today,” she says.

“I will keep an ear out,” I answer. “James didn’t give any sign of noticing Heather.”

“Sorry to interrupt,” comes another voice. I’m not entirely sure who it is, but it’s familiar enough that I could probably narrow it down if I had enough interest. Fortunately he says, “This is Zephyr from 6. We met a couple of times.”

Zephyr of District 6. . . . He won one of the Hunger Games before the turn of the century, if I remember right. Older guy. That’s pretty much all I know about him. But his words are quick and almost nervous. Not quite nervous, but like he’s trying to get out everything he has to say before somebody stops him.

“What’s up?” I respond.

“I’m sorry to ask you this, but have you seen Solar? I have to talk with her,” he says.

The only reason someone would go out of their way to speak with Solar would be if they were absolutely required to. I’ve heard that some of the older victors aren’t quite as bothered with the fact that she’s a terrible human being, but no one has ever cared that she was missing from the mentoring room.

“Yeah, um, go find the richest person in the Capitol and then check their bed,” I answer.

“Geeze, Elijah!” Terra gasps.

Zephyr only laughs. “Okay, I’ll take that as a no,” he says. His footsteps retreat, and I wonder how the hell he’s going to pull off an alliance with somebody who has absolutely zero interest in actually trying to be a mentor. I clench my fists and tell myself that it’s not my responsibility and that I cannot take care of Maggie and James at the same time.

“She’s a piece of shit human being,” I say to Terra even though I’m sure that no explanations are necessary.

“I get it. That was just pretty harsh. Some victors don’t choose to—” she starts.

But I cut her off, “At this point, I don’t care.”

Terra doesn’t answer right away. Further explanation sits on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t just say that Solar has abandoned Maggie before the Hunger Games have even begun, so I bite it back and tell myself to get back to the task at hand and not worry about Solar.

“So, Heather?” I prompt.

“Oh, right,” Terra says. “She thinks that she and James will be good to work together.”

“I’ll talk with James tonight and see what he says,” I answer. “I’ll be back here tomorrow.”

“Sounds good. Keep me posted,” she answers. Then she stands up, “See you.”

Terra heads back to her workstation and I turn around to mine. My fingers move over the cold monitor and I press the button for the tributes. I run my index finger across the words until I come to the District 12 female at the very bottom:

Name: Heather Meadowlark  
Age: 15  
District: 12  
Grade: 10  
Hometown: Ash Mines

I press the button on the side of the screen that connects with my headphones and provides me a verbal description of the tribute:

> Heather Meadowlark, age sixteen. 5’0” tall. Ninety-three pounds. Brown eyes. Black hair. 

Oh yeah, she’s not going to make it very far. Tiny girl from an outlying district? The Careers will hone in on her as an easy kill. Funny. In a matter of seconds, I have assessed the girl and decided that she’s not worth James’ time. Just like that.

I’m getting used to this mentoring thing, and I hate it.


	13. Chapter 13

The training scores will be released in a matter of hours, but once James and Maggie return from the training room and have time to freshen up, I tell them that we’ll be working on mentoring before dinner. First I take James into a private room and ask him about Heather.

“Yeah, she wanted to be in an alliance but I said no,” he responded.

“Why?” I ask, more out of curiosity than anything else.

“I just . . . I’m going to work better if I’m alone,” he answers. “And, honestly, if I ally with someone, I’d like them to be able to pull their own weight.”

“Heather wouldn’t?”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “No. Unless she’s like me and is just pretending to be mediocre at things (which I don’t think she is pretending), then maybe. But she can’t figure out how to light a fire, she would have eaten at least five toxic plants, and she doesn’t know how to handle a single weapon,” he says. His voice trails off, and then after a moment he adds, “This is terrible. I’m okay being on my own, but to just decide that somebody is going to drag me down and let them get killed instead. . . .”

“Yeah, it is,” I answer. “But if that’s the decision you have to make to survive, then that’s what you have to do.”

James thinks for a second, and as he does so, I realize that there’s not nearly as much tension between us as there was in the beginning. He trusts me, and I know that I, for whatever reason, trust him now, too. He might need my guidance but he has a good head on his shoulders and I trust that he’ll make decent decisions. But with it comes the trust that maybe he will win. It’s an ‘all or nothing’ approach that I can’t shake myself free from. I twist the ring on my finger and try to distract myself from it and bring myself to the here and now.

“I never had to think like that,” he says quietly. “I’ve been alone so much, but never at the expense of others, you know?”

“Yeah, I do,” I say. “They put us into these shitty positions and there’s nothing we can do but go along with it so we can have a chance to live for another few hours. But listen, don’t write off an alliance outright. I agree that Heather might not be the best choice, but you might find while you’re in the arena that there are people who are worthwhile allying with, if only temporarily.”

“Until we kill each other,” he says.

“Or until you decide to part ways,” I add. “There’s no rule that alliances have to end in death. They will, if they go on long enough, but you don’t have to let it get that far.”

Most do end in death. Either the tributes turn on each other or they are killed by outside forces. Some will be murdered by other tributes while others, like Ilana, will die in accidents. Still others yet will be killed by muttations and events. Yes, it’s safe to say that the majority of alliances end because one party or another dies off.

James and I spend some time talking about alliances, but then when we turn to the more general subject of survival skills, we go out to the sitting room so that Maggie can be with us. There has been no sign of Solar, but I think that the three of us have given up hope that she will be around this evening. At least not until the training scores are released and she has to make a show.

Solar finally returns just before dinner, and the five of us sit down to enjoy another meal served up by the slaves. I don’t tell my fellow mentor that Zephyr was looking for her. That will only open up another conversation I don’t want to have, plus it’s not my business to do his job for him. It sucks that Solar doesn’t want to perform her duties, but I’m already burdened with an extra tribute and I don’t need to take on the task of messenger, too. Anyhow, Wilton is more than eager to go on about a new fashion line introduced a few hours ago.

“It’s just to die for,” he sighs. “Once I get my hands on—”

“Or you could shut your mouth,” I interrupt.

“What is _wrong_ with you, Elijah?” he asks sharply. I’ve offended him by shutting down his enthusiasm for something that’s complete bullshit. But despite my comment, I can’t bring myself to say why I really said what I did. I learned my lesson, and I’m not going to point out that using phrases like ‘to die for’ about fur coats and dumb hats when there are kids present who are literally going to die in a matter of days is completely tactless. Disgusting. Unethical. Use whatever word you want. If I say anything, it’ll just make the matters worse.

But then Solar, piece of shit that she is, just says, “I saw the line you’re talking about, Wilton. It really is gorgeous.”

And that gets Wilton rambling again about how there’s a three-piece bathing suit that is an absolute ‘must have’ this summer, and that it has a matching raincoat for when things get a little too wet.

All I can think is that there are children whose lives will be snuffed out so that he can further appreciate his wardrobe by having a little entertainment while he shows off his new swimwear.

I stand up from the table abruptly, toss the napkin down in my chair, and grab my cane.

“I’m going to go get ready for the training scores,” I say to no one in particular. Without another word, I make my way from the dining room to the adjacent sitting room and throw myself down on the couch.

In a matter of time, this room will be crowded and uncomfortable, but for the moment I have a brief respite. The television remains off, and I close my eyes and tell myself that I need to regain control before I lose it entirely. I just barely manage when the elevator door dings open and the stylists appear.

Lucretia, Maggie’s stylist, has been in the business only for a short period of time but apparently she’s just a fashion sensation. She expects to be treated as such. Doris has been around for much longer, slowly making her way up the social ladder until she ended up in District 5 last year. She’s decent, but she thinks too highly of herself, like her years in the industry automatically make her better than everyone else. Both of them are annoying, but tolerable.

However when you add in the release of the new fashion line, things just become chaos. The two of them, who normally don’t speak a whole lot to each other, bubble with excitement and gush over the latest accessories that match the bathing suit and raincoat. Solar joins into their discussion every now and again to add fuel whenever the flames start to get a little low. The lot of them wander into the sitting room and take their seats. Maggie and James come, too, but neither of them say anything.

The couch sinks next to me and I pray that it’s not Solar. But as soon as the person starts talking, I realize that it’s Doris. Not that it’s who I’d want to have next to me, but sure beats my fellow mentor.

Somebody turns on the television, and there’s a bit of a squabble to find the best channel. All of them will have the same shit on it, so it’s not like one is significantly better than the others, but you’d think they were all showing something completely different from the next. Once a channel is chosen, the voices of Janice Lovely and Caligula Klora greet us, and we catch them talking about the tributes and what little we’ve seen of them so far. It doesn’t surprise me that neither of the District 5 tributes come up as people to keep an eye on, but at least they’re not automatically written off like the District 12 girl and a few others are.

“She’s going to be one of the first to go, for certain,” Janice says about Heather. “But I’m sure that her district will be proud of her sacrifice.”

The stylists and Wilton make noises in agreement.

“She doesn’t stand a chance, poor thing,” Doris says.

“Not one bit,” Lucretia agrees. “But had she a few more years on her, she really could have been something.”

“Oh, not at all,” Wilton says. “She’s already fifteen and she’s so small. I don’t think she’d be able to grow an inch even if she had a full three years to do so.”

I rub my forehead and try to pretend that these assholes aren’t here critiquing this child. But if it weren’t for them and many others, we wouldn’t be having the Hunger Games in the first place. It’s their bloodlust and disregard for human life that keep the Hunger Games going.

At long last, the music picks up and Caligula announces that it’s time for the scores. Then he and Janice begin to read them off, starting with District 1. High scores for the Careers, of course. Nines and tens mostly. Then once the boy from District 4 is awarded a 9 and the girl is awarded a 10, the announcers move on to District 5.

“James Faraday of District 5 receives a three in training.”

Yep, that’s a bad score. He did a damned good job of making him seem mediocre. Possibly too mediocre. No time to think about it before they’re moving onto Maggie.

“Magnetite Galvani of District 5 receives a four in training.”

Slightly better, but then again, not great. Probably pretty average for the non-Career districts.

Before I have a chance to say anything to the two of them, I hear Solar laugh.

And with her laugh comes a sudden burst of anger. I grasp onto my cane and will myself not to jump up and beat Solar with it right this moment.

“Solar? Can I have a word?” I ask between gritted teeth before the rest of the training scores have a chance to be released. My fingers tighten on the cane.

“Give it a minute,” she answers. “I want to watch the rest.”

So we do. It’s the same usual smattering of low and middle scores. No one has anything remotely impressive, but that’s not surprising. Some years there’s an outlier, but it’s not a guarantee. The Career pack all have decent scores and with the highest non-Career at a seven, it’s not like the competition’s looking great this year.

“Alright, let’s have that talk,” Solar says to me.

I stand up and follow her out of the sitting room. This is harder than usual with all the noises around us and the fact that Solar doesn’t give a rat’s ass about whether I get lost or not. Despite this, I manage to keep up and the two of us go into a mentoring room where we won’t be overheard by the tributes. I slam the door shut behind us.

Now that I have her attention, I don’t know exactly what to say. Still, the anger bubbles within me, and I know I have to say something.

“How about trying to be a decent mentor?” I begin with as much calm as I can muster. “It’s only a few days out of your life. Can you _please_ give Maggie a chance?”

“Maggie doesn’t have a chance, as I told you,” she says easily. “And anyhow, I am mentoring. I might do it differently from you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not mentoring.”

“You haven’t even _tried_ to mentor once Maggie left your room crying,” I point out. Irritation flares up inside of me and threatens to derail the conversation. I do my best to shove aside the sharp jabs of anger so I can continue this conversation in a somewhat rational manner. “And now you laugh at her training score? What the hell sort of mentor does that?!”

“You’ll see when you—”

“No, I _won’t_ ,” I snap. “That’s been your damned excuse since the reaping, and it’s complete and utter B.S. Please just mentor Maggie. It’s for a few days, a couple weeks max, and then you can move on with life.”

“I told you: I am mentoring her,” she says. “Not all tributes are receptive to the same mentoring style.”

“That’s a load of crap,” I retort. “She would love to have somebody mentor her properly. She’s a quick learner and she is eager to listen. But you don’t know that, do you? You’d rather bat her around and laugh as she suffers, huh?”

“I have my own methods,” she answers.

“Yeah, right,” I snort. “And then you go off to whoever you’re entertaining this time around and forget all about your tribute. Do you forget that you’re a district resident, too? Are you so brainwashed by the Capitol that you think you’re one of them?”

“Mind your own business,” she snarls at me, the cool persona vanishing as I hit the nerve I knew I would. She moves into my space and I feel her breath on my cheek, but I hold my ground. “Give it a few years, and you’ll see that sometimes you need to prioritize. You might not like the decisions you have to make, but then you’ll understand how hard it is to actually mentor.”

“Tell yourself that if it makes you sleep better at night,” I say. I tap my cane against the ground next to my leg to try to keep myself from lashing out at her.

Her fingers press against my neck and move across my trachea. She laughs when I flinch, but I will myself not to pull away. I tighten my grip on the cane and stand there motionless.

“My decisions bother you,” she says.

“You’ve abandoned the kid you’re supposed to be mentoring,” I say. “Of _course_ that bothers me.”

“Hmm,” she says, her fingers still moving across my skin.

“I’ve told her that this is your own mentoring style and that you’re trying to toughen her up, but she knows it’s bullshit,” I say, giving it one last attempt to reason with her. To see that I’ve been somewhat covering for her and that I didn’t just throw her under the bus even though she deserves it. “Please, just do your job.”

“Elijah, did you ever think that the one I’m trying to toughen up is you?” she asks.

I freeze, and she gives a small laugh as her fingers slide across my skin and pause on my jugular to feel it pulsing. She seems to relish the quick throb beneath her fingertips, its beat increased with those few words she spoke. I want nothing more than to break free from her, but now it’s not pride that roots me in place but fear. My body has frozen as though the coldness of her touch has shot through me and bound my feet to the floor. She’s still playing games with me. I try to remind myself that she does this for her own entertainment, but again there’s a creeping terror that there’s more to what she’s saying than mere words. That there may be a message behind it that I’m supposed to obey.

It’s the warmth of her breath on my skin that breaks me from the moment, and I manage to reach up and grab her wrist.

“Fuck off, Solar,” I say, and then I thrust her hand away from me.

“You know you like me,” she answers.

“Do you job,” is all I can manage.

“I always do, Elijah,” she responds, and then she moves past me and leaves the room.

A great emptiness surrounds me in her absence, as though she took all the air out of the room with her when she left.

I don’t allow myself to stay there by myself. I can’t. I’ll start thinking again. Thinking of her words, of the potential threat, of the things that I’ve done and that I’ve failed to do. Of the people who are dead both by my hand and because of my inaction. I step into the hallway and breathe in an attempt to clear my brain.

And then, of all things, I hear Solar say, “C’mon, Maggie. It’s time for mentoring.”

Words fail me, and I move aside as the two of them walk through, Solar’s even footsteps with Maggie’s skittish ones. When the two of them are securely in one of the mentoring rooms, I take James into the other.


	14. Chapter 14

After breakfast, James and I head to one of the mentoring rooms to discuss the interview while Wilton takes Maggie to go over the performance aspects of tomorrow evening’s event. Solar disappears with the promise of being back later.

“So you’re going to want to ‘sell’ yourself to the audience,” I explain to James once we’re comfortable on our couches. I run my hand up and down the armrest as I talk. “Tributes usually try to pick an angle to present to the Capitol. Not everybody, but normally that’s how it goes. The key is to choose something that is strategically appropriate but that is realistic for you.”

“Alright,” he says. “So what do you suggest?”

“As we discussed, you can’t go up there and talk about how much you’ll miss your family, and yesterday’s training score was low enough that you can’t say that you’re a shoe-in for victory,” I tell him.

“So I just go up there and pretend to be completely useless?” he says.

“No, see, here’s the complication: once you’re in the arena, it will be clear that you’re not completely useless,” I tell him. “So I was thinking that we could have you say things that appear to be meaningless now but will have value once people actually see what you can do. They’ll want to go back to your interview and re-watch it, and then they’ll realize what exactly they missed.”

“I . . . think I understand,” James says, but it’s clear from his intonation that he’s just going along with me and isn’t entirely on board.

I take a breath and a moment to reorganize my thoughts. My fingers press into the armrest.

“Tell them that you’re going to show them that you can be victor,” I say. “Don’t say it with tons of confidence or un-do what you’ve already done in the training room. The audience will just think that you’re making it up right now, but once you’re in the arena, they’ll see that you were right.”

And with that, we begin planning his interview. We craft it in a way so that he’s not going to draw too much attention to himself or make the Careers think that he’s a threat, but when the Hunger Games begin and he’s forced to fight, people will say to themselves, ‘Wait, didn’t he _tell_ us that he was going to do this but we didn’t pay attention?’ It’s not something that most tributes would be able to pull off, but the more time I spend with James, the more I realize that he’s not like most tributes.

The conversation about the interview dies down, but we still have time to spend before lunch.

“When you get to the Cornucopia, don’t go for a weapon,” I instruct him. “Grab a bag if you can, and if you think it’s worth the risk, make it a good one. But don’t waste your time with a weapon if you can make your own.”

“Alright, yeah,” he says to show that he’s listening.

We once again go over what he’s supposed to do in arenas of various biomes. It’s an endless list of ‘do this’ and ‘don’t do that.’ But James takes it in stride and tells me that if it’s something simple like a forest or even a field, he’ll be fine. Temperature doesn’t matter, he assures me, because he’s been stuck outdoors in below-freezing conditions, and he’s spent a few sweltering summers at summer camps for unwanted teenagers.

Finally Wilton comes and gets us for lunch. We sit with him and Maggie at the table and wait as the avoxes set around bowls and plates. Solar does not join us, and as the meal progresses, her absence becomes more prominent. Nobody points it out, but Maggie grows quiet and her fork slows down before the others do. When the meal ends and the avoxes whisk away our plates, Wilton stands up and beckons James to join him in a room. The two of them leave, and then it’s just Maggie and me.

I remember this.

I remember being abandoned when I was supposed to be mentored for the interview. Solar had at least pretended that she was being helpful, but she decided that I wasn’t worth her time and left ten minutes into our four-hour session. I went into the interview entirely unprepared, and although I was able to wing it, it had been a boring three minutes for the viewers at home. Nothing really remarkable.

But that was me. I was able to shake off Solar’s cruelness enough that I could still move on. Maggie is different. Maggie is . . . she’s like Ilana. She’s not like me.

So after several long minutes with neither of us daring to acknowledge that Solar wouldn’t be coming to help the girl, I finally stand up and say, “Come on, Maggie. Let’s go talk about the interview.”

Maggie is an only child. She had a little brother who had a chronic illness; he passed away when he was four, and now she is her parents’ only living kid. She has been playing competitive soccer since she was in elementary school and she assures me that she’s in good shape. She has a lot of friends and even more acquaintances. She’s even made friends with other girls on competing teams. Once a girl slide tackled her and the ref gave Maggie the red card. When Maggie approached the other girl after the game, the girl thought that Maggie was going to fight her. But instead Maggie just said that she liked her footwork and didn’t think she needed to resort to slide tackling because she was good enough on her own. Maggie proudly says that she and the girl are best friends to this day.

“Solar says that I have to choose an angle for the interview, and I’ve really been giving it thought,” she says. “I don’t think I’ll be able to convince anyone that I’m _that good_ since I only got a four in training, but I think I’ll be able to at least show everyone that I’m smart, I think. I _could_ try sexy, which was one of the suggestions she had, but I’m not really sure I’d be able to do that respectfully. Solar said that I shouldn’t be—”

“Maggie?” I interrupt before she can get too far.

“Yes?” she answers.

“I think you should just be yourself,” I say.

“No, but Solar said that I’m not somebody anyone will want to pay attention to,” she answers.

“Solar is an absolutely terrible individual,” I tell her. “She has made you cry multiple times by telling you that you’ll die. She’s abandoned you on several occasions, including today. She’s told you things that aren’t true because she doesn’t care enough to give you a shot. I won’t say that you shouldn’t listen to her at all because maybe she told you something worthwhile, but don’t write yourself off just because she doesn’t value you.”

Maggie doesn’t respond. I listen to her breathing growing heavier and heavier, and finally she starts sobbing. This time, however, she doesn’t jump up and leave the room. Several awkward minutes pass as she just gasps and sobs and snivels. I hear a noise that is probably tissues being pulled out of a box, and then she blows her nose a few times and sniffles some more.

“C-can I tell you something, Elijah?” she whispers.

“Yeah, sure,” I say because what choice do I really have?

“S-Solar told me to do this,” she says quietly. “She told me that if I didn’t like her as a mentor that you would be more than happy to mentor me. I-I didn’t know what else to do. She’s so horrible, and she said such cruel things. So she told me that it would . . . it would give me an advantage by throwing James off if I asked you to mentor me. I guess . . . I’m sorry! I didn’t care at that point. I just wanted to be away from her, not to hurt you or James.”

Well that’s . . . annoying.

But not entirely surprising.

I rub my forehead and sit back in the couch. How the hell am I supposed to mentor when I have the likes of Solar working with me? Next year will be with Benjamin which will be slightly more tolerable even if I have to watch him pretty much neglect his tribute, but then I’ll be back with Solar the following year. It’s an endless fucked-up cycle.

My heart pounds quickly and I clench the armrest between my fingers.

I hate her. I hate her and her damned ‘methods’ for mentoring. I hate everything about her.

I hate that every other year, I’ll be doomed to work with her, and the tributes in her care will be tortured and denied their last bit of comfort before being thrust into the arena.

“Maggie,” I say after a moment.

But then she’s sobbing again: “I’m so sorry! I wasn’t going to say anything but then—then you’re so _nice_ to me, even if I’m taking time away from James!”

“Okay, Maggie, listen,” I interrupt before she can start babbling too much. “Listen to me. You aren’t taking time away from James right now. But I need you to focus so that the time we have here is at least helpful for you, okay?”

“Okay,” she sniffles. She blows her nose again and apologizes.

“You cannot anticipate that Solar will give you any sort of sponsorships in the arena, especially if she’s annoyed at you for any reason,” I say to her. “Your best chance, if you need something in the arena, is to form an alliance with another tribute who might have sponsorships so that you can both benefit from that. So for that to work, you’re going to need to make yourself sound at least somewhat likeable, which you are. . . . You’ve played soccer for years, so you know how to work with others. Competitive soccer at that, so you’re in good shape, too. But you’re also independent enough that you can make your own decisions. These are things that the Capitol needs to know. Don’t shove it in their faces, but you can kind of integrate it into your answers.”

Maggie eagerly follows whatever I say. She and James aren’t that different in this regard. Maggie, however, asks plenty of questions for clarification and sometimes gets a little sidetracked by the details. But the hours easily slip by, and I find that I’m starting to like her. And, worst of all, I’m wondering if James will have competition.


	15. Chapter 15

The day of the interview is the last day before the real chaos begins, and it’s traditional that the mentors do their own thing until they’re required to return to get ready for the interviews. Most head off around the city to do a bit of sightseeing and pretend that they aren’t about to throw a few kids into a death battle. Normally I take this day to brush up on my survival skills so I can pour more information into the tributes before they go to bed tonight. But, of course, Ferrer thinks that I’m isolating myself from others when I do that, and I’m supposed to be more sociable, so I figure that at least showing my face around the mentoring room for a brief few seconds would be worthwhile.

Then I’ll—well, I don’t know what I plan on doing. I don’t like exposing myself to the Capitol more than absolutely required, not unless there’s a damned good reason to do so. Some mentors take this time to go to the beauty center to make themselves look nice for the cameras that will inevitably follow them around. Some just find some place to hang out for awhile. Others hole themselves up somewhere and drink a respectable amount to forget about what’s going on for at least a few hours. But how can you do anything except focus on the tributes who will be dead in the immediate future?

When the stylists and prep teams whisk the District 5 tributes away to get them ready for the interviews, I take the elevator down to the ground floor, then follow the corridor to the second set of elevators that lead to the mentoring room.

Tributes. Plural. When Maggie gets hurt or does something praiseworthy, will I be expected to make sure she gets a sponsorship gift? Do I have to track down Solar and force her to give it to the girl? Does it matter because I know what I said to Maggie is true: she can’t expect gifts.

The heaviness of bearing two tributes, even if one of them is not fully ‘mine,’ weighs on me and presses me down. Movement is hard. Thinking is hard. Doing anything except letting my body move of its own accord is challenging. My brain churns with thoughts that I can’t stop, and it’s a damned good thing that I know how to get to the mentoring room by muscle memory because I’d never have made it this far if I had to consciously choose my path.

The elevator doors open, and I hear the sounds of other people. It takes me a second before I realize that I have to move aside to let them out.

“Elijah, where are you headed?” comes the voice of Pitch, the District 7 victor.

“Mentoring room,” I answer evenly as though I’m not struggling to keep myself from collapsing on the floor beneath the racing thoughts.

“We’re going out for the day. Care to join us?” he asks.

“Nah, I think I’m good,” I say. “I’m supposed to meet Terra anyhow.” A nice excuse so that I don’t need to surround myself with people.

“I’m here,” Terra says.

I hesitate. I can’t tell how many people are here, but this many mentors in one spot will draw the Capitol’s attention. The last time I decided that I’d spend free time in the Capitol, I got swamped by assholes begging for my autograph.

In the moment of hesitation, Lady says, “C’mon, we are going to go on a hike.”

“Yeah, that’s totally how I want to spend my time,” I say perhaps a little too sarcastically. A little too much effort in my words to sound normal.

“Fresh air will do you some good,” Pitch insists.

“So Ferrer’s babysitting committee is back in action?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it,” he answers. “C’mon.”

They begin to move down the hall, and I consider declining, but I find myself following after them before I realize it. Yeah, I have been isolated from the others. It helps when I don’t want to think about the decisions we face and the things we must do, but the disconnect leaves me aching for some sort of human companionship in this hell world. And, anyway, Pitch, like Ferrer and Lady, has been keeping an eye on me since I won. Some sort of pact they have to keep me from going off the rails. The three of them pick up their conversation again, but I just listen to the rise and fall of their voices as I keep up.

None of us talks about the Hunger Games. Not in the cab ride, nor once we reach our destination. I’m not entirely sure where we are, but I don’t bother asking. Instead I let them drag me around some man-made forest for awhile until it’s clear that I’m really slowing them down. The path is easy enough to walk, but I don’t have the same enthusiasm as them for being here. My legs drag, and my mind wanders. Trying to keep up proves challenging when I can’t even keep my attention focused on the sounds of their movements. Eventually find a bench and sit down.

“Don’t wait up for me,” I say to them. I want to add that they should probably also not assume I can find my way out of this place, but I leave that off and pretend that I’m totally cool being in this random place right now.

It almost smells like a real forest. Although District 7 gets credit for being the ‘tree district,’ District 5 has a good number of forests as well. Some of it has been cut down to make room for wind turbines, but there’s still ample opportunity to go out and enjoy some nature. The Capitol uses real trees in its fake forest, and it still somehow seems comfortable despite knowing that every inch is lined with Capitol technology.

Footsteps approach, and even on the gravel path I can tell that it’s Terra.

“Can I join you?” she asks quietly.

“Yeah, sure,” I respond, and she takes a seat on the bench next to me.

I lean back into the wooden slats and try to pretend like I’m enjoying myself. But really, I’m on edge. I don’t exactly know why, but it’s hard to get comfortable out here when I know that my tributes are being prepped for slaughter in the Training Center.

Tribute. Singular.

Not _tributes_.

Or are they both mine?

“Heather said that James declined the alliance,” she tells me.

“Yep,” I answer.

“I’m not surprised,” she says. She kicks at the gravel under her feet, sliding her shoes across the top as the little rocks scrape against the ground.

District 12 doesn’t have a whole lot of victors. Their kids tend to be small and weak relative to the children of the other districts. Despite the economic advances Panem has enjoyed over the past half century, the coal district still struggles financially. They have excellent schools, but then their kids have nothing to do with their educations once they graduate. Coal is still their primary industry, but with District 5 producing the vast majority of power in the country, mining has lost its value. They’ve turned to other ores and minerals, yet only a small percentage of their district pursues this for their career.

“The reviews are saying that she’s going to be either the first or second killed,” Terra says after several minutes of silence.

I don’t respond to this. Instead I drag my cane around on the gravel as though I’m writing or drawing something, but it’s really just random movements as I try to distract myself from the pain in Terra’s words. Terra won the 129th Hunger Games at the age of fifteen. It was quite a big deal back then to have a young kid from the poorest district in the nation win the Hunger Games. She wasn’t the only kid from an outlying district whose win generated attention, though. Lady and Basil, District 11 victor of the 132nd Hunger Games, also won at fifteen years of age. The victories of the three of them plus Elm of District 7 frustrated the Capitol to the point where they were adamant that my year would be a Career victory. No more of these young kids from the outlying districts.

Aside from Terra, District 12 has Phoenix, who won the 102nd Hunger Games. There might be one more, but they’re the only two I remember, and they’ve been mentoring together since her win. One small child after another falling in the arena. Year after year after year. She’s only seven years into this, and she already sounds so hopeless.

“I’m sorry, Elijah,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything. You have your own tribute to deal with.”

And does she sound sorry. Her voice strains as she tries to hold in her emotions.

“Tributes,” I say. “Solar has abandoned Maggie. Mentor in name only.”

The moments the words are out of my mouth, I know that I shouldn’t have spoken them. I like Terra. She’s a decent person and she’s always been pleasant to me. But that doesn’t mean that we’re friends right now, not when the Hunger Games are almost upon us. We can be friends when our tributes are gone and the Hunger Games no longer holds power over us for another year. But until then, it’s crucial that I remember that telling anybody, even Terra, about the situation in the District 5 apartment could mean that my tributes die. I jab the end of my cane into the gravel and try to brush aside the thought that I’ve managed to betray both tributes in one momentary lapse of judgement.

Terra draws in a sharp breath.

“Please don’t tell anyone,” I add. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I won’t,” she promises. “I am so sorry that you have to work with Solar. I can’t believe she did that.”

“I can,” I answer. “She didn’t exactly deserve to win mentor-of-the-year when I was tribute, either.”

And yet she got plenty of attention for that. People praised her and featured her in interviews and magazines and television programs as they celebrated the success of District 5. Nobody cared that she tried to kill me in the arena; that was treated as a bit of a fun side note. What that actually meant was brushed aside, and nobody thought twice that maybe leaving me alone in her presence wasn’t a smart thing to do. Hell, they even gave her a key to my hotel room when I asked them to let no one have access to my personal space.

“The Hunger Games are so fucked up,” Terra mumbles.

I snort. Yeah, can’t disagree. But there’s not a whole lot else we can say to that, not with the Capitol surely listening into our conversation in this adorable little forest they gave us. I listen to the sounds of squirrels and birds and other things that have taken up residence in this artificial forest, and I try to pretend that I am back home for a few moments. When Terra talks again, however, all attempts to project myself elsewhere fail, and I fall back into reality.

“After Heather dies, if you want to talk, um, just let me know, okay?” she says. “It won’t be long. What time is it? Maybe twenty-four hours max.”

“Yeah, sure,” I answer.

Just like that. Her kid’ll be dead and she’ll go on in life because what other choice does she have?

Unable to take this conversation anymore, I stand up and continue down the path, acutely aware that I have left her behind on the bench marinating in her own misery. But what can I do about it? I have my own pain to work out, and I can’t take on any more than what I already have.


	16. Chapter 16

Solar pretends to be a mentor for the interviews. Once the tributes are ready, the stylists and prep teams present them to Solar, Wilton, and me, and then we’re supposed to tell them how great they look. My fellow mentor fawns over how wonderful they look and what a great job the stylists did on them. No one expects much out of me, however, but this gives Wilton the opportunity to go on about what they’re wearing in a nonsensical stream of name brands and jargon that I have no desire to understand. My guess is that Maggie wears a blue dress and James wears a navy suit with ruffles. Yes, ruffles. He’d get the shit beat out of him in District 5—or, really, anywhere that has any common sense—but here in the Capitol, it’s the epitome of fashion.

Then the whole lot of us head down to the lobby where we are shuttled to the auditorium in cars. It’s a quiet ride; none of us bother talking much, aside from Wilton giving the tributes instructions on how to conduct themselves.

Once we’re inside the auditorium, Solar and I stay with our tributes until they’re told to line up.

“You’re going to do just fine, James,” I say. And then I add a little more ‘discretely’: “It’s normal to have stage fright.”

“Yeah, um, sure,” he answers. I can’t tell if he thinks I honestly believe he’s terrified right now. Maybe he is. Can’t tell by his voice, and it’s not like I can read any visual cues he’s giving.

“I have to go sit down, but I’ll be back here after the interviews end,” I explain.

“Thanks,” he says, and then he falls silent. With nothing else to be said about this, I meander away from him, following the rumble of the audience and the occasional guidance of the stage staff. I’m acutely aware that Solar keeps pace with me.

The auditorium can seat several thousand people, easily. The benefit of being blind is that I don’t have to look at them, but so many people still make enough noise that it’s easy to become overwhelmed. I quickly lose Solar who gets distracted greeting someone or another, and Lady invites me to sit with her and Basil. I take my seat, exchange a few greetings, and then we embrace the joys of the interviews.

The good news is that I don’t need any sort of narration for the interviews.

The bad news is that I also don’t like listening to kids try to sell themselves for a chance to live to see their next birthdays.

But I suffer through it because there isn’t a choice, and each kid tries to outdo the previous one in their three minutes of fame.

The Careers are good. They usually are, but they stand out in particular this year. Maybe it’s because of Artemis, who is just as excited to be here as she was three years ago when I met her. Her confident voice rings out clearly through the speakers, and yet she speaks without a hint of cockiness. This is where she was meant to be; this is her destiny for which she has prepared her entire life.

And she sounds so much like her sister. . . .

But her time is up soon enough, and the last echoes of her voice disappear from my ears as the District 2 male takes her place.

Soon enough, it’s Maggie’s turn and she does a very good job. She’s articulate and polite, but she tells Caligula and the audience about all her years playing competitive soccer and how she’s won both team awards and individual awards. She talks about her family and friends at home and how she’s excited to be the victor so that she can see them again, and that they’ll be so proud of her. She comes across both as a genuine person and as somebody who is capable both as a teammate and an individual. Exactly what I told her to do.

To think that Solar wanted her to pretend to be somebody else.

No, don’t think about Solar. Don’t think about how she’s going to get credit for Maggie’s solid speech. It doesn’t matter because the only important thing here is that Maggie got the help she needed even if it wasn’t from the right person.

Then it’s James’ turn. And he’s so mediocre it almost hurts. But good kid that he is, he slips in a few lines here or there to tell people not to overlook him and that he might surprise them and all that stuff. Caligula kind of plays it all down and accentuates what a sweet and respectful guy he is. He kind of does this dismissive ‘When you’re victor’ sort of thing, and James just goes along with it like he really thinks that the interviewer thinks he has a shot. The three minutes end soon enough, and then it’s on to District 6.

Finally when it’s over, we mentors stand up and navigate through the sea of people to the backstage so that we can be reunited with our tributes. From there, we take cars back to the Training Center.

“Good job,” I tell the two of them once we’re in the relative privacy of our apartment. “Go ahead and get cleaned up, then we’ll have dinner.”

Both tributes thank me and head off to their rooms.

I trudge off in the direction of my own room so that I can switch out my suit for something a little more comfortable, but Solar’s voice catches me before I can go too far.

“You know, Elijah, I won’t be spending much time in the mentoring room,” she says to me. I pause outside my door and lean against the wall, too tired to fight her bullshit. She stops near me but keeps about an arm’s length away as she continues, “But you have my phone number pre-programmed into your phone just like you do all the other mentors, so if you ever need anything, just call me.”

“Right, thanks,” I answer tiredly.

“And, Elijah? I think maybe it would be worthwhile if you came and met my friends some day,” she says. “They have an interest in you, you know.”

She’s trying to get me riled up, but I don’t have the energy. Not now. Not the night before the Hunger Games begin. No longer willing to humor her, I turn and press my thumb against the sensor, and the door clicks unlocked. Slipping inside, I close the door and lock it behind me so that she can’t follow me. My hand remains on the doorknob as I strain to listen to her retreating footsteps, but I hear nothing. The door is too thick; the room is too soundproof. So finally I turn around, peel off my jacket, and head to the wardrobe.

James asks for more mentoring after dinner, so we go to the mentoring room. I’m not sure what becomes of Maggie and guilt stabs my stomach when I realize that she’s partially my responsibility. I settle down in my couch opposite James.

“Anything else I should know before tomorrow?” he asks.

There are so many things one should know, but so little time to say it. All of the survival skills, all of the weaponry advice. . . . There’s no way I could impart on him all of the knowledge he should have packed into his head so that he has a chance to win. So I must pick and choose my words carefully to make sure that each one has the impact that it needs to have. I give him as much information as I can, but eventually we have to wind down for the evening.

“James, if what you say is true and you can really fight like you described, you have a chance at victory,” I tell him carefully. “You know I can’t promise you that it will happen, but I am going to do everything on my end to make sure that you have the best shot you can.”

“Thank you,” he says. He taps his fingers against the couch and then stands up suddenly. He seems to reconsider this and sits back down. “I have to ask. . . . I mean, what’s the harm in asking at this point. . . . What’s with you and Solar?”

I raise an eyebrow at this. Most people understand that Solar and I don’t have the best of relationships because she tried to kill me, so I’m not certain what he’s trying to get out of me with that question.

He must sense this because he continues, “You’re always on edge around her, and then she pretends to be nice to you and everyone else, but she sits there smiling like an idiot the entire time you’re struggling not to throttle her.”

“She’s a particularly demented individual,” I answer. “And you have accurately described our relationship.”

This gets a small laugh out of him, but it quickly disappears when another question replaces it: “Is she really as terrible as she seems?”

“And then some,” I answer.

“And if I win, I’ll have to mentor with her?” he asks.

“Realistically no,” I tell him. “More than likely you’ll be mentoring with me every year. Benjamin has no desire to mentor, and Solar really shouldn’t be a mentor. You’ve seen what she did to Maggie, and she did the same to the previous tribute she had two years ago, and she did the same to me. So you’ll probably be stuck mentoring every year like I am.”

James thinks this over for several minutes. I grow uneasy in the lingering silence, but it’s not the silence itself that bothers me. It’s knowing that every second that ticks by is one fewer second that James and the other tributes have to live. One more moment of life wasted away.

“Winning . . . isn’t quite what they say it is, is it?” James finally asks. He treads gingerly with his words. He’s not dumb enough to think that we’re really given privacy in this room. Sure, Solar and Maggie and Wilton don’t know our conversations, but people far more powerful than them definitely do.

“On the contrary. It’s exactly what it looks like,” I answer.

Wealth. Fame. All of it unwanted. A life saved at the expense of others. A great, cavernous home. Repeatedly being dragged back each year to experience the Hunger Games over and over again. Years of violence. Death. They might not frame it quite like that, but this is an image that can stand on its own.

“I understand,” he says.

“You’re not having second thoughts, are you?” I ask.

“No,” he answers. “I was just curious, that’s all.”

Good. We didn’t get this far just for him to have some existential crisis and decide that life after victory wasn’t worth living. He won’t understand what that means until he’s actually victor— _if he’s victor­_ —but it won’t help the situation if he gives up before it even begins.

“My mom dropped me off with my great aunt once,” he says. “She didn’t come back for me. A couple years and a few homes later, I found out that she had another kid with a different guy. But this kid she kept even after the guy was no longer around. I don’t know why, but for some reason she kept my little brother, and once I found this out, I couldn’t understand why she had left me behind. What was wrong with me, you know? I started acting out more. Got into more fights. Ran away a few times. It’s funny because all I could think was how shitty it all was, and what I’d give to have a real family in a nice house. Where I wouldn’t have to worry about where I was sleeping that night, or how I was going to get dinner. And yet if it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have a shot in hell, would I? It’s like that was my own training, and because of that, I might have a chance to win. I’m not saying I will win, but it’s kind of ironic, isn’t it?”

I fidget with the ring on my hand and let his words sink in. A shitty life of suffering that might help him out in this even shittier situation. And if he doesn’t make it, then everything was in vain. The changing homes, the abandonment, the fights. . . . All that is only worth it if he wins.

_If he wins._

I can’t get my hopes up because the chances of District 5 having another victor so soon is impossibly small. And yet I won’t give up on him. I neither pity him nor do I think he has outstanding potential. He’s a smart kid, he has some skills, and the hope he has is based on more than mere fantasy. He knows that the odds are not in his favor, and yet he hasn’t given up because despite the long shot, he might be able to pull this off.

“James, prove your family wrong,” I say. “Prove your foster parents wrong. Show them that they were morons for not being proper parents to you and that they never should have written you off.”

I hear the smile in his voice when he speaks again:

“Thanks, Elijah,” he says. “Really, I mean it. You might be the first person who has ever thought I could do something in life.”


	17. Chapter 17

The tributes have long since retired for the night, and Solar has vanished into her room. Wilton, of course, has headed out to get his beauty sleep since he has to wake up so early tomorrow—“Not that I’m complaining, of course,” he assures us—and the avoxes have whisked away our dinner plates and returned the apartment to its pristine state.

Yet here I am, pacing back and forth through the sitting room and dining room, unable to calm myself down enough to will myself into bed. I teeter back and forth between whether calling Marie again would be appropriate, or if it’s best that I let her get her sleep while she can.

The elevator door dings, and I stop pacing and cock my head to listen. Wilton must have forgotten something. Avoxes don’t use the main elevator (they must have one elsewhere so that they don’t get underfoot), and I don’t think the stylists would have any need to be in the apartment tonight. I lower myself down into one of the chairs so that whoever it is, Wilton or not, won’t catch me standing here like an idiot.

I hone into the footsteps on the marble flooring. Not Wilton; doesn’t sound like him. Too light and careful. Like someone sneaking in here.

The footsteps start to go down the hallway towards the bedrooms and mentoring rooms. I stand up and say, “Who is it?”

There comes a surprised gasp and then a girl’s laughter. The footsteps turn and hurry in my direction.

“I don’t normally break into people’s apartments, but I wanted to say goodbye,” comes Artemis’ voice as she moves into the sitting room with me.

The District 2 girl? In the District 5 apartment? Surely that must be breaking some rule or another. And how the hell did she manage to get here? Isn’t there some sort of photo recognition software to keep the wrong people off the floors they aren’t supposed to be on?

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t startle you,” she says quietly.

“You didn’t. I’m just surprised,” I answer. I once again lower myself into the closest chair.

From the sounds of it, Artemis makes herself comfortable in one of the other chairs. Then she says, “You remember our first meeting after you won and you came to visit Ferrer?”

“Yes,” I say.

“It stuck with me. It’s not that I was a stranger to victors since I trained in victor village, but you were different,” she says. “I’ve been surrounded by Careers my whole life, and it just seemed so natural that going to the Hunger Games was something we all wanted to do. Like, duh. And then there was you who so hated your experience that you were baffled by how I could want to go to the arena, especially after Athena died. I don’t know. . . . I couldn’t get it out of my head.”

Yes, I remember that very well. It didn’t make sense because she had just lost her sister and yet there she was willing to throw her life away for the same pointless cause. Every objection I had was met with a confident retort. She was so certain that she would win, and now I wonder if she’s having her doubts and has come to let me know. Why else would she be here?

“So you sneaked through the Training Center the night before the Hunger Games because. . . ?” I ask.

“Because I felt like there was something left unsaid between us,” she tells me. She leans in a little closer and keeps her voice down, “I know you don’t like that I volunteered, and I know you’ll never understand why I did it, but just know that I am satisfied with my decision regardless of the outcome.”

“You’re very likely going to die just like your sister, and you’re okay with that?”

She laughs lightly. “No, of course I’m not okay with that, but I’ve accepted that it’s a possibility,” she says. “There’s no victory without the risk.”

No, there isn’t. But there’s so much more to life than victory. What I would give to have been able to live my life without being reaped! To be able to see again, to have my family whole and intact, to not be surrounded by hollow rooms echoing with reminders of the things that I’ve done. To fall asleep feeling safe once more. To think about a future without being overwhelmed by pain or fear. And this girl would give it all up for the chance of bringing honor to her district? Does she not realize that literally nobody else looks at the Hunger Games as something that will bring honor?

“Artemis, I don’t know what to say to you,” I admit. I clasp my hands in front of me and absently play with the ring on my finger. “You could have lived and gone to school and had a job and married and made a life for yourself and died of old age. But now you’re throwing it all away because of some ill-conceived notion of honor.”

“Ill-conceived? No, winning the Hunger Games is the greatest thing we can do for our district,” she says. “Even greater than going to school and marrying and all that stuff. I am meant to go to the Hunger Games, and if I am meant to be victor, then I can still do all those things.”

“And if you are not meant to live?” I ask quietly.

“Then so be it,” she answers.

I sit back in my chair and stare blankly towards the wall ahead of me. There’s no way to reason with this girl. She is so delusional about the Hunger Games that she will take nothing else as an answer. I suppose at this point it doesn’t matter when she’s already volunteered and there’s no going back, but an emptiness in my stomach reminds me that her death will be just as pointless as all the others.

“Elijah?” she asks.

“Hmm?” I say to show that I am listening and haven’t checked out entirely.

“Congratulations. On the baby,” she says. “I hope it’s not inappropriate for me to say that. I know you don’t like interviews and you really weren’t comfortable on the last one, but I am honestly happy that you’re going to be a father.”

That makes one of us, I suppose. Not that I’m _unhappy_ , but it’s still sinking in how serious of a situation I’ve gotten myself into. Yet it seems surreal that Artemis, of all people, would have gone out of her way to say it, especially when she’s in the middle of convincing me that dying for pointless causes is a realistic goal.

“You’re a weird girl,” I say.

She laughs, but cuts it short in an effort to be quiet. She is not supposed to be here after all.

“I like you, Elijah,” she says. “And I really hope that you won’t be unhappy with my victory, should that be the case.”

“No, I won’t be unhappy,” I say. “But I’m really hoping that my tribute wins. No offense.”

“None taken,” she answers easily. Then she stands up and says, “I should go to sleep.”

I stand up as well and the two of us move to the elevator. Her footsteps are light and her pace even. The Hunger Games begin in mere hours, and she really ought to get some rest before it begins. Then again, it would benefit my tribute if she didn’t sleep at all.

How shitty is this that we get to choose one of these kids, and all the others must die?

The elevator door opens with an almost silent whoosh, and Artemis steps inside.

“Good luck,” I say to her.

“Thanks,” she says. “But I think I’ll be fine.”

The doors close, and I am left alone in the apartment. This is so messed up, this girl about to throw her life away for no reason. I suppose I should be happy that it’s not another innocent kid like James or Maggie, but it doesn’t help at all. Not when Artemis seems like an actually decent girl with a good head on her shoulders aside from the obsession with the Hunger Games.

It’s all a waste. Such a damned waste.

I find my way back to my bedroom despite the thoughts buzzing in my head. Once inside with the door closed, I pull off my clothing, toss it on the floor exactly like I’m not supposed to because I will only trip over them in the morning, and crawl into bed in my underwear. For several long minutes I lie awake and think of that conversation and how I can’t dare think about Artemis as victor because it means both James and Maggie dead, and I try to fight off the unexpected pain that twists itself around my organs and squeezes. I screw my eyes shut tightly, but of course it does nothing. Everything is the same as it always is. And yet the pain won’t go away.

Once more I fumble for my cell phone, and my fingers dial in Marie’s number. Her sleepy voice greets me, and I lay in bed and listen to her tell me about her day and all the shenanigans that little Marty got into when she, George, and Grandpa were distracted with something or another. I don’t care. She could be reading me a recipe, or reciting her 9th grade science book, or telling me all the line items of her taxes; I just want to hear her voice, to be with her if only remotely, and to pretend for the tiniest sliver of time that I am back in District 5 by her side.


	18. Chapter 18

We don’t get to say goodbye to our tributes in the morning.

Instead we mentors are required to be in the mentoring room at 5:30 AM so that the escorts and stylists can get the tributes seen off on their own personal hovercrafts to be taken to the arena. There they will be bathed and fed and given clothing appropriate for the arena theme, and then then they will wait wondering if these final minutes before they’re loaded into the transport pipes are the last few moments they have to live.

We victors are a somber lot. People say few things to each other. We try to pass it off as a product of the early hours, but we all know that it’s the weight of the future that burdens us.

For the first time this year, Solar is here in the mentoring room. She takes her place next to me, but we say nothing. Even she is on edge, though I suppose it’s less to do with her tribute’s impending death and more that she’s not welcome in this room. Still, the animosity is something that stays between us victors; the same sentiment isn’t shared by the people who require us all to be present at this location.

The officials go down the line of us and hand out monitoring devices to each mentor. There’s a bit of an ordeal with the District 1 pair who are first in line and have no idea how to work these devices. The girl apologizes and says that she’s not normally this stupid after the officials have to give her extra instructions. Then it proceed numerically, and within a minute they’re at District 5.

My monitoring device looks like the others’ (or so I’ve been told) but it functions a little differently. The others are made to display information visually, but mine wouldn’t be able to easily replicate the braille interface of my work station. So with it are a pair of in-ear headphones that are barely visible once in place; these will give me information verbally with a touch of a button on my device. There is some information on the device itself, including a small map that will be accessible once the bloodbath ends, but most of it will be conveyed to me by spoken word.

I slip the headphones in my ears and adjust the device onto my wrist next to my watch. It’s a bit cumbersome to wear two things at once, but it’s not like I can just look at a clock to tell the time; this particular piece has an open face so I can feel the small hands and determine the time.

Once we’re given our mentoring devices, people begin to get up and move.

“See you later, Elijah,” Solar says sweetly before she stands up and disappears. Good riddance to her. I push myself to my feet and move towards the lounge. From there I manage to find the coffee machine with buttons labelled in braille and pour myself a styrofoam cup of coffee. The only thing that will get me through the morning before it’s time to head off to the first party of the day.

The parties won’t start until closer to the beginning of the Hunger Games. It takes time to remove the tributes from the Training Center, transport them via hovercraft to the arena, and prepare them for their deaths. In the meantime, we have to wait here until all tributes are on their way, and then we’re allowed to return to our rooms to get ready for the first party.

I, fortunately, am only required to go to the bloodbath party. Most mentors are expected to go to several during the first day, but in some strangely generous gesture, the Capitol has excused me from going to the follow-up parties.

But I have some time to kill until then.

The first year, I made the mistake of returning to the District 5 apartment as soon as we were allowed to go. Finding myself with the empty rooms and the distinct lack of tributes in the apartment threw me off, and I had to fight to recover myself so that I wasn’t completely screwed up for the bloodbath. Now I know why most of the mentors hang out here until it’s absolutely necessary to go get ready.

Lowering myself onto a couch, I make myself comfortable. I take a sip of the coffee before feeling around for an end table next to me and setting the beverage down. My hands go to the watch. Not even six o’clock. Damn, it’s going to be a long morning. Once more I pick up the coffee and take a sip.

“Coffee or tea. What do you recommend?” comes the voice of the District 1 girl, Isolde. She’s close enough that I know she’s talking to me. Plus there aren’t that many of us in the lounge yet.

“Does it matter?” I ask, perturbed that she decided to bother me on an already stressful morning.

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I didn’t know if one was better than the other, like there was a really good flavor of one.”

Crap, she’s just trying to be nice, I tell myself. There’s no animosity here.

“I’ve only had their coffee,” I say. “If the tea’s any good, I wouldn’t know it.”

“Coffee it is then. Thanks,” she says. She bumps into one of the couches as she leaves but makes no sound to indicate that it bothers her, just a shuffling of steps as she regains her balance.

People trickle in, most of them heading immediately for the caffeinated beverages. Maybe some go for the alcohol, I don’t know, but I’d like to think that people aren’t taking to drinking this early in the Hunger Games. A few exchange dialogue, but there’s no pretending that we’re here for any reason but why we are actually here, and then people seem to scatter out.

“How are you holding up?” Ferrer asks as he sits down on the couch opposite mine.

“Fine,” I respond. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” he answers.

And that’s it because there’s not much we can talk about right now. What would we say anyhow? Just chat about the weather and pretend like we aren’t minutes away from mass quantities of bloodshed? Or maybe we could talk about how his tribute sneaked into my apartment last night just to tell me that she’s perfectly cool with her decision not just to engage in murder but also to be murdered in the process.

“Elijah, you need to take care of yourself,” he says after several minutes of silence.

I furrow my brow and clasp the cup of coffee in my hands. This again, huh?

“What the hell does that mean?” I ask.

He sighs. “What I said the other day about not isolating yourself,” he says. “I know you’re just humoring me—coming to the mentor room, going out with Pitch and the others—and that’s good, don’t get me wrong, but you’re just going through the motions.”

I exhale sharply. Fine, so he’s stalking me. I was right about the outing having been part of the babysitting committee. Despite the fact that part of me knows that Ferrer’s right, I grit my teeth in irritation and clutch my coffee cup tightly. The styrofoam bends beneath my grasp, and I have to tell myself to release my fingers so I don’t snap it into pieces.

“Have you contacted Harmony since you’ve been back here?” he continues.

“I’m fine,” I insist. I don’t need to run back to my old therapist whenever I come to the Capitol. And certainly not knowing that I am one of the few victors who get this as an option.

“You are not, Elijah,” he says. 

“Maybe it has something to do with the fact that a bunch of kids are going to die for no damned reason,” I snap before I can stop myself.

Ferrer sighs. He seems to struggle to find words to say to me, and that’s fine. He doesn’t have to say anything at all. Who the hell cares if I’m not sociable when our entire purpose is to kill a bunch of kids? Sure, we might not be the ones pulling the trigger, but we sure as hell are doing nothing to stop it. Now that those words are out, I retreat back into myself so that I don’t dare say anything else that could be counted as traitorous should anyone be listening in on our conversation. I pray that whoever’s turn it was to listen to the lounge bugs had to take a toilet break.

All Ferrer ends up saying to that is, “When you get a chance, call him.”

We say nothing more on the topic. Nothing more at all, actually. Others come, and Ferrer chats with them, but people know better than to disturb me when I’m moody, so they leave well enough alone. Fine by me since I have no desire to talk with them.

At last, I excuse myself to go get ready for the party. Standing up, I grab my cane and head out of the lounge and through the mentoring room as I make my way back to my apartment. Thoughts tumble in my head but I don’t try to make sense of them.

They make us help them murder kids. They make us attend parties to celebrate. And they make us dress up and pretend that we like it all.

Once I reach my room, I take my time in the shower if only because I struggle to move my leaden body. Each movement is heavy. Cautious. I can’t afford to be careless when every motion of my hand or foot requires so much energy. I wrap a towel around my body and slump against the wall, no longer able to support myself.

You can say that it’s only a couple hours, days, weeks, and then it’ll be over, but that’s not the case. Not when you’re here and you’re in the mentoring position and you know that no matter what you do, it will never be enough to save your tribute.

The sound of the cell phone ringing draws me out of myself. I reach out and feel on the counter for a moment before I locate the phone. It has a feature that would allow me to see who is calling before I answer it, but I forget all about it as I press the ‘call accept’ button.

“Hello?” I ask.

 _“Oh. Hey, Eli. I thought I was going to leave a message,”_ Marie says.

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

 _“Yes. Well. You know. But I was just calling to tell you that I love you, that’s all,”_ she says.

I sit down in the bathroom’s chair and slump against the metal back rest. Ah, Marie. Worried about me, or perhaps just tearing herself apart as she remembers Ilana and me in the arena. And Ilana’s death. I clutch the phone harder in my hand and press it against my ear.

“I love you, too,” I reply.

 _“Eli. . . . I, um, it’s just hard, you know?”_ she says. _“I think about her so much, especially now, and things are—it’s really hard.”_

“I know,” I say. And I do, really. Ilana’s death hurt both of us, and it’s something that we both have to relieve year after year. “We just have to get through this, then I’ll be back, okay?”

 _“Yeah, I know,”_ she says. _“I just wish Solar and Benjamin weren’t such assholes and would let you have a year off. I mean, I know it’s just the third year, but it’s not fair that Benjamin is just staying home working on his model train set when it can wait for him for a couple weeks.”_

“They’ve been doing this so long that they think they need a longer break than just a year off,” I say.

 _“And we both know that’s bullshit,”_ she says. _“It’s not—”_

“Marie?” I interrupt her before she can start ranting. Those sorts of rants are okay in our house when we have rooms we are certain are free of bugs. But not on a line which is guaranteed to be monitored.

She sighs. _“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. Again, I thought I was just going to leave a quick message on your answering machine,”_ she says. _“You have way too much on your mind right now. I’m really sorry.”_

“Marie, it’s okay,” I assure her. “It’s good to hear from you. It’s, um, it makes the day better.”

It keeps me from thinking about the bloodbath party, if only for a few minutes. From the tribute that I can do nothing to save.

 _“I’m glad to hear that Eli,”_ she says. _“Especially when all I do is get on the phone and complain. Ugh. You don’t need to hear all that.”_

“But I do,” I tell her.

 _“Umf, you’re too nice to me,”_ she says.

I smile at that. “I miss you,” I reply.

 _“I miss you, too. Will you be able to talk? Later, I mean?”_ she asks. _“I understand if you can’t, but I’d like to talk every now and again.”_

“Yes, of course,” I say. “Please call me whenever you want. If I’m unavailable, I’ll get back to you.”

 _“Thanks, Eli,”_ she says, and there’s a touch of relief in her voice. _“I love you. Have a good—well—take care of yourself.”_

“Same,” I say. Because there is no way that either of us could possibly have a good day. She hesitates, and I know that she wants to say more, but her words don’t come forth. So all I can say is, “I’ll talk with you later, love. I have to get ready for, um, the beginning.”

The bloodbath party. Which I have told her about in the past, and almost regret it. But Marie deserves to know at least some of what happens here; I can’t leave her entirely in the dark. She wishes me well, and then I press the button to end the phone call.

The relief from hearing her voice for a few minutes vanishes, and I am left alone not just with the weight of two tributes but with the knowledge that my wife is struggling just as much as I am and I can do nothing to help her. But within the heaviness is a distinct emptiness that I can’t really understand.

A sudden surge of anger wells up and pushes the heaviness aside. For a few brief moments, I have the energy I need to stand up and stalk off to the bedroom and get ready for the day. The anger keeps me afloat as I struggle through the motions of finding clothes and pulling them on. Anger at the Hunger Games. Anger at the Capitol. Anger at Benjamin.

And most importantly—anger at Solar.

Because she gave me the emotional burden of two tributes, even if I am not responsible for both. Because she wouldn’t let me stay home this year and be with my wife. Because she makes sure that I know that everything is my fault.

For the first time in quite awhile, I allow my anger at Solar to flourish. The tributes are gone, and there’s no reason to hide my abhorrence for her. My hatred. Not that I have any reason to express it right now since I am alone in the apartment, but I embrace it and allow it to keep me moving in the direction I have to go.

Once I am dressed and groomed, I grab my cane, slip on my sunglasses, and head out of the apartment. I allow the anger at my co-mentor to seep out of me and spread into the Capitol. The Capitol that I hate just as much, but whose lifestyle and bloodlust I have to pretend to support. And I will play along because I know I have no choice for my tributes, and they will never know the extent to which I hate them all.


	19. Chapter 19

The party is in full-swing when I arrive. Pounding music, laughing people, a sea of cacophony. I struggle to keep my head up and my brain alert. The anger helps. The hatred keeps me going. Every jolting laugh, every heartless comment. . . . It all fuels the fire within me, and I embrace it so that I don’t collapse to the ground in a heap.

People greet me in passing. I say hello and exchange a few useless pleasantries, and then I move on in the crowd. Bodies press against me. A few hands ‘accidentally’ touch me in places they shouldn’t. Strong perfumes and colognes weave together with the sweet and sharp alcohols that slosh around in glasses. Everything is hellish chaos.

Finally I break free into an area that doesn’t have quite as many people. If I’m not supposed to be here, no one says anything. Instead I allow my cane to sweep the marble ground before me as I move forward through the mansion. My ears struggle to pick out individual noises over the madness I’ve put behind me, and eventually I come across a room that has a television and what sounds to be very few people.

I allow myself to hate the Capitol for cursing me with eternal darkness. With no clue who is in the room or how many, I can only trust that I am not about to plunge into something I will regret.

“Elijah Asher! How exciting!” comes the voice of a woman. “Please, come and sit down!”

So I move into the room and follow the sound of her voice as she chatters with someone else and tells them about how much of a pleasure it is to have a victor in their company, especially one who is so handsome and clever. Well, yes. I will regret being here. But I have no choice now, and I reach out a hand and feel for the chair she tells me is open. Once my fingers touch the upholstery, I guide myself down into the seat. To my relief, it is a single armchair made for one and I will not be expected to share with anyone else.

The woman introduces herself as Peggy and then she goes about the room and introduces three other people as well. She gives names that I struggle to hang onto even though I’ll likely forget them as soon as the party ends, and I try to pin the name to the voice when the people say hello or give me another useless few words.

“There’s a good bet going on for your tribute,” says a man named Lilac. “Whether he will get out of the bloodbath or not.”

“Oh yes, he looks like he might make it if he is a good runner,” Peggy says. Her voice comes from a chair not too far from me. I think that several of them are sitting on the same couch. “Is he, Elijah?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be messing with the bets, am I?” I ask.

Peggy giggles. “We would never tell,” she assures me. And then I feel warmth and pressure (a hand, most likely) on my knee. I struggle to keep from pulling away at the unexpected touch.

“I really don’t think he’s going to make it, but I hope I’m wrong,” comes the thick, husky voice of a woman named Worthenia. “But he has more of a chance than the District 9 boy. What’s his name? Mint, is it?”

“Yes, that’s his name,” says Lilac. “Much too scrawny. I think if he does make it out of the bloodbath alive, whoever put money on him will be rich beyond belief.”

“I have $10,000 on him dying in the first three minutes,” says the fourth person, Dictyoclostus. Haughty, aloof, and . . . something else in the voice. I can’t place it. “But of course I don’t do it for the money, just for the thrill of it.”

I clasp my hands in my lap with my cane between my palms and keep my façade in place. The calm victor. The victor who’s totally okay with listening to people make these sorts of comments. The victor who understands his role in the Capitol and embraces the Hunger Games as a necessary part to keep society moving.

But internally I am nothing but hatred. Seething, writing hatred. Every sentence they speak only fuels this rage within me, and I allow it to soak through my body and twist around my bones.

An avox comes around and passes out drinks. He hands me something and I set my cane aside and sip it. Definitely alcohol, which is what one expects to find at these sorts of events. I run my fingers over the condensation beading on the outside of the glass and focus on the cool drops against my skin. It’s only a few minutes until 10:00 AM and within a half an hour, these people will all be drunk enough that their words will pour fourth more freely. There will be no escape from the horrible things they’ll say. Already they have become more comfortable with their opinions, and I suspect that they are not on their first round of drinks.

“James might need a little more meat on his bones to be any real contender, Elijah,” says Lilac. “You didn’t even try to fatten him up?”

“So what, the others could eat him? I know it’s called the ‘Hunger’ Games, but that’s not how it works,” I reply. This only gets a little laugh from Lilac.

“I’d put money on the girl, Maggie they call her, before the boy,” says Worthenia. She slurps loudly. “It would be so wonderful to have a soccer champion for a victor. But that’s only if the Careers somehow get knocked out first. I’d much rather one of them win.”

“Dear Worthenia, is that how you speak with a District 5 victor in our presence?” says Peggy.

Worthenia sighs. “I think Elijah is smart enough to figure out that we have some insight that others may not have,” she says.

I get the feeling that Worthenia only cares about her own opinion. That and the alcohol she’s drinking, judging by the continued slurping noises. Either she has a bottomless glass, or the avoxes have brought her a steady stream of drinks.

“It’s almost time!” Lilac announces, and the four of them start twittering amongst themselves as they whip out last-minute comments.

While they fumble for the television remote, I slip my headphones into place. I can still hear their conversation just as loud as before, but now, once the Hunger Games begin, I’ll also ‘get’ to listen to narration of every single move that the tributes make, and then some. Although it’s a benefit that the headphones are discrete enough that most don’t notice I’m wearing them, the downside is that because they can’t see that I’m listening to something else, they think they can talk with me. I’ve considered buying more prominent headphones, but I fear that they’ll block out my hearing altogether. Or, worse, draw attention to the fact that I can’t see what’s going on.

At last we hear Janice Lovely and Caligula Klora welcome us to the 136th Annual Hunger Games. My heart thumps quickly but evenly as I listen to the two of them exchange words back and forth about how wonderful it is to be here again and how they can’t wait for what happens next. They need to buy a few more minutes of time before the Hunger Games begin (three minutes, I estimate based on my watch), and then they can launch into the frenzy. So they talk about the various tributes and which ones are ones to keep an eye on, either because they’re contenders or because they’re likely to be killed in the bloodbath. I roll my cane around in my hands as I listen.

The avox comes around once more with alcohol, and the other people in the room nearly kick him out, until they realize that their glasses need to be filled. I have no clue where the hell I put my glass after the first initial sips, so when he hands me another drink (I follow his movements based on the bells on his wrist), I take it from him.

I just need to get through the next few minutes. Then either it will be over or it won’t; either way, I won’t need to think about the bloodbath again.

“It’s beginning!” Peggy squeals, as though the loud music and the announcers telling us that it was starting wasn’t good enough. She says something else, but right at that moment, the narration feed kicks on in my headphones.

> The camera pans around the Cornucopia. There is snow in all directions. To the north are mountains in the distance. The tributes are raised up.

I hold my breath as the narration pauses as the tributes’ pedestals begin to click into place. Then the clock begins to count down, and I force myself to breathe evenly. The narration continues, this time telling me what tributes are doing in the vital sixty seconds before the gong releases them from their pedestals. Some tributes survey the Cornucopia. Some take in the arena which is snow-covered as far as anyone can see. Some cry or whatever else. I hone in on the District 5 tributes. James looks at the supplies in front of him. Maggie is taken with the arena itself, but keeps glancing towards the Cornucopia. I never told her not to try to grab a weapon like I did for James; never even crossed my mind. I wonder if Solar gave her any advice.

_I wonder if Solar told her to go close to the Cornucopia to grab a weapon in the hopes that she’d be killed off early and then she wouldn’t have to deal with her._

Don’t think about Solar, I instruct myself. Think about the tributes. Think about getting them out of there alive.

I take a sip of the drink in my hand and let the sweet alcohol linger on my tongue for a moment before swallowing it.

Ten seconds left.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

The gong sounds.

> District 2 male reaches Cornucopia first and obtains a sword. District 1 female reaches Cornucopia and obtains knives. District 3 male reaches Cornucopia and obtains a bag in inner rim. District 4 female reaches Cornucopia and obtains a sword. District 2 female reaches Cornucopia and obtains a bow. District 2 female aims at District 3 male. District 3 male dodges. District 3 male retreats. District 4 male reaches Cornucopia and obtains spear. District 4 female reaches Cornucopia and obtains a bow. District 4 female aims at District 6 female. Arrow penetrates neck. District 6 female eliminated. District 1 male approaches District 7 female. District 1 male snaps District 7 female’s neck. District 7 female eliminated. District 2 female aims bow at District 8 male. Arrow penetrates chest. District 9 male obtains bag in outer rim. District 2 female aims bow at District 9 male. Arrow penetrates cranium. District 9 male eliminated. District 8 male eliminated. District 12 male flees Cornucopia. District 10 male flees Cornucopia. District 5 female obtains bag in inner rim. District 7 male obtains bag in inner rim. District 7 male obtains small swords in inner rim. District 5 male obtains bag in inner rim. District 3 female obtains bag in middle rim.

I listen intently for James and Maggie. After Maggie picks up her bag, the District 1 female sees her and attacks. A knife goes into Maggie’s calf, and I wince at the girl’s cry, but then she manages to escape. James races in, grabs his bag, and gets the hell out of the Cornucopia. The narration doesn’t go into the details, but it seems that the tributes are slower than normal and I suspect that the snow hinders their movement. Once things aren’t as fast paced, I’ll receive more detail about the terrain, but in the meantime, I’m at the mercy of whoever they get to narrate.

One by one, the tributes fall. Some, like Maggie and James, are fortunate enough to escape. Others aren’t. It’s a snowy arena, which means that supplies will likely be limited. Kids run further to the Cornucopia than they normally would in order to ensure they receive the best supplies, and then they’re just easy to pick off.

In the end, twelve of them are dead.

The music dies down, and twelve cannons fire to signal the end of the bloodbath.

For a heartbeat, I exist in my own world as I think about the twelve teenagers who have died right here for absolutely no reason. The pain becomes almost unbearable as it tightens around my throat.

> The deceased tributes are District 6 female, District 7 female, District 9 male, District 8 male, District 3 female, District 8 female, District 12 female, District 10 female, District 11 female, District 11 male, District 7 male, District 9 female.

Twelve dead. Including Terra’s little girl that no one thought would last the bloodbath. It is no consolation that she died seventh rather than second or third as they predicted. It doesn’t matter, not if she’s dead in the end.

But the pain that we victors are in right now means nothing. Now that the cannons have sounded and the cameras have given everyone full view of the corpses scattered across the blood-soaked snow, the Capitolites let out breaths of excitement and begin chattering about what they witnessed. Dictyoclostus proudly croons that he won his bet since the District 9 male died within the first three minutes, as he predicted. He promises everyone in the room that he’ll share the wealth.

James and Maggie are alive, I tell myself. They made it out of the bloodbath. They’re alive.

And yet it does little to calm me and even less to tune out the voices of the others in the room. I throw back the rest of the alcohol in my glass knowing full well that I’ll probably regret it, but hey who cares at this point?


	20. Chapter 20

“James is a _very_ fast runner, Elijah,” Peggy giggles. The alcohol has hit her, and she moves closer to me so that our knees our touching. Her hand returns to my leg and she gives it a squeeze. My own alcohol has taken the edge off just enough that I can sit here compliantly.

“He’s currently the tribute farthest from the Cornucopia,” Worthenia adds. “But it’ll just be a matter of time until the Careers catch up with him. They like to let the other tributes get a bit ahead.”

“It will be difficult to escape the Careers this time,” Lilac adds. “Hard to run through snow.”

Right now, the narration feed tells me about whatever tributes are shown on this television we’re watching. Everything is synced together so that I have no control over what information I hear, just the same way that the other victors can’t simply change the channel to see whatever tribute they want when they’re at a party like this. Back in the Training Center when I’m either at the mentoring station or the television in the apartment, I’ll be able to follow whichever tribute I want.

The cameras focus on the Careers. The District 4 male has a bite mark where one of the tributes managed to get him before being killed at the end of his spear, and now the District 4 girl helps him find the supplies necessary to treat it. They talk about how human mouths are so filthy and the ‘little bitch’ who bit him was playing dirty like the outlying trash she was. The other Careers sort through supplies and weaponry of their own, each taking into account what they have been given.

The Capitol has been generous in the Cornucopia. Cold, snowy arenas never have much in the ways of resources, so in order to keep the Hunger Games going for more than a couple of days, they load the kids up with supplies. There might be other places that they can find things conveniently, too; such as, say, a shack in the middle of a forest. And, as I learned, one must be so very careful around these places because they will be a haven for traps or, worse, other tributes.

I wouldn’t be surprised if the bags the tributes grabbed (if they grabbed any) are loaded with gear as well. Everyone is outfitted with clothing that is appropriate for the snow: two layers of pants and shirts, a thick jacket, solid boots, gloves, scarves, hats, and sunglasses. The narration reports that it’s currently thirty-five degrees, but I’m sure it’ll drop much lower before the Hunger Games are over.

Focusing on the facts makes dealing with these assholes more tolerable. As I listen to the television and my narration, they babble about the arena and how ‘gorgeous’ it is. There’s discussion about how previous Hunger Games in snow have been so very boring and everyone hated to watch the tributes starve to death because they couldn’t find resources, but Dictyoclostus, who seems to have too much information for somebody who is able to place bets, assures them that the Gamemakers likely have some very good things in store for these tributes to make sure that nobody gets an ‘easy win’ by merely outlasting the others. His reassurances bolster the enthusiasm of the others, and they eagerly exchange ideas about things they hope to see. Right now, of course, there’s very little. When the tributes get further from the Cornucopia, the cameras will show us more of their journey, and the audience will receive pieces of the map that the tributes have ‘opened’ as they explore the arena. We know there are mountains in the distance, and somebody mentions that they thought they saw forests, too, but my narration hasn’t provided me information about that. Sometimes, though, my narration doesn’t capture all the details that the eye can see.

“Now that you know the arena, Elijah, do you think that James has a chance?” Lilac asks.

Peggy squeezes my knee as she waits for my reply to such a ridiculous question. Do they really expect me to give up on my tribute?

“You act like he’s never seen snow before,” I answer.

“Well, some tributes haven’t,” Peggy says.

“Geography isn’t a strong point in the Capitol, huh?” I say.

“All children study geography,” Lilac tells me. “But we adults don’t always remember it.”

“Yeah, well, District 5 receives its fair share of snow,” I explain. I roll the empty glass between my hands and wonder vaguely where I set my cane. Must be next to me somewhere. “Maybe more than they have in the Capitol.”

Worthenia scoffs at this. “More snow than the Capitol?”

I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t keep track,” I answer.

“Oh, look! The District 1 girl found poisoned darts!” Peggy squeals. The others gasp and fall silent for a moment as they, no doubt, turn to the television.

Poisoned darts aren’t very common in the Hunger Games. But when the terrain is difficult to traverse, projectiles prove to be more useful than melee weapons. Not uncommon in deserts, snow-covered arenas, rocky arenas, and the like.

“This is _definitely_ going to be another Career win,” says Worthenia. “I can feel it in my bones.”

Considering that the Careers cleaned up the training scores, killed twelve tributes in the bloodbath, and have access to superior weapons, it is pretty damned likely going to be a Career year. My heart thumps in my chest and I set aside the empty glass onto the end table. I feel around my leg for my cane and find it resting up against the chair’s arm. Having it in my hand provides me the smallest amount of comfort. Not for my tributes, of course, but for me.

“Does anyone have a piece of paper?” Lilac asks. “I forgot my card at home.”

“Oh, hang on one moment,” Peggy says. She moves her hand off my leg and there comes a rustling sound. A moment later, she pauses and says, “Here you go. I don’t have a pen.”

“That’s fine,” he answers. “I’m such a fool that I forgot my card but brought my pen. Let’s see. . . . Districts 7, 8, 9, and 11 are completely out. . . . Let me mark those down really quickly. I’ll get the exact order later. Then 3, 6, 10, and 12 only have one tribute. That means that 1, 2, 4, and 5 are the only districts that have both tributes left. . . .”

“You must be so proud, Elijah,” Peggy says, her hand back on my knee.

“I suppose I’m proud that my tributes didn’t get murdered in the first ten minutes of unnecessary violence,” I say.

I take a quick breath when I realize how stupid of a comment that was. That’s enough alcohol for me. Might take off the edge, but it doesn’t help much with my impulse control.

“Now, now,” she says to me. “I’m sure you remember how thrilling it was to be a tribute.”

I keep my mouth shut only because I can’t think of a remark that will not get me into trouble. Or, worse, get James and Maggie killed. I allow the anger that the alcohol dulled to twist back around me at the woman’s words, though I know that, whether intentional or not, she covered for my stupid remark. For this reason, I stay here in this room well after I’d normally leave to get a break from my ‘companions’ and say nothing else for fear that my words will just get worse. I listen as the others chatter about what’s going on television while my feed tells me how far away from the Cornucopia certain tributes are when they’re featured, what each tribute is doing, etc.

The snow makes it difficult for tributes to traverse, but at least its older, hard-packed snow that they can walk on with relative ease. It won’t always be that way; once the tributes are scattered enough, they’ll make it snow again so that things become more interesting.

At long last, people in this room start to disperse. Worthenia leaves first, followed by Lilac. I take that as an acceptable time for me to leave, too. It’s a little too early to call a cab, but at least I can stretch my legs, find an empty room to spend a few minutes, and then mosey back towards the exit. People will be leaving to go to their next party, and I can return to the District 5 apartment.

I thank Peggy for inviting me in and she laughs and tells me that it was her pleasure. With that, I stand up, grab my cane, and leave.

Now that the excitement of the bloodbath itself is over, people have started to migrate away from the main rooms and through the mansion in order to catch up with friends and tell them what happened as though their friends didn’t witness the carnage themselves. But there are usually some quieter rooms if one knows where to go. Although Capitolites love watching kids kill each other, not all of them are outgoing or extroverted; some like to watch with a little more privacy. Once, though, I found a room where several people were passed out completely drunk. I only discovered this when I tried to sit down and the couch was already occupied. Fortunately there was an empty chair there, so I got to spend my time earning points for being social without actually being social.

I keep track of my steps so that I know where I’ve come from, which will make leaving far easier, but this house proves challenging to navigate. Hallway after hallway; room after room. I can listen for noises from the rooms well enough, but as time passes, I realize that I’m not looking for a room to hide away as much as I am just walking around for the sake of walking. I’m roaming a corridor in the depths of the house when I hear hushed voices.

“Please don’t,” comes the voice of a female, desperation tingeing her words. “I’m not—I mean—I don’t want to—”

“Darling, you do,” assures a male. He speaks even and confidently. “You will enjoy it, trust me.”

“No, but I—” the female starts again, and I realize that I know that voice. I struggle to place it. It’s familiar, on the tip of my tongue, and yet perhaps the alcohol was not a great idea. It’s not that I’m drunk, or even tipsy (I don’t think), but I’m not focusing as clearly as I should be. I linger outside the door for a moment, acutely aware that I probably look like a creep.

“I promise you, this is what you want,” the man insists.

“Please no. You’re nice, but I need to get back to my tribute and—”

Fuck, it’s Lady.

“We’ll just go back to my place. You’ll be more comfortable there,” the man insists. “A glass of wine or two, and you’ll be much more relaxed. Your tribute will be fine as long as you’re with me.”

I hear Lady stammer something, but no words come out. Something within me ignites, and I grasp onto the wall to try to stabilize myself. Lady has already told this man no, and he is insisting that she say yes. He’ll take her away where no one can help her and get her drunk so that she has no choice.

Without contemplating whether I should, I throw myself into the room and say, “She told you no, asshole.”

“Who the—oh, right,” the man says, his surprise replaced with some sort of understanding when he realizes who I am.

Nobody says anything for several seconds as a silence falls over us. I listen to Lady’s rapid breathing; they aren’t too far away from me, and she isn’t even trying to pretend that she’s not freaking out right now.

“I-I need to go,” she says to the man. She pauses to give him a chance to respond, but when he says nothing right away, she scurries over towards me.

“I’ll call you,” he eventually says.

“Yes, o-okay,” Lady responds.

I feel her hand on my arm, her fingers grasping onto the fabric of my jacket sleeve, and I turn around and lead her back into the hallway. She clings to my arm now, holding onto it as she tries to keep herself from shaking. Neither of us say anything. Not about what that man wanted from her, not that if I had come a couple minutes later she would already be on her way to his house where she would have no escape, not that I just did the absolutely stupidest thing in order to keep her out of his bed. I don’t ask her where she wants to go, and she doesn’t lead me to the door; we just both maneuver together through the crowd and find ourselves on the street where we call a taxi and climb inside.

The drive back to the Training Center is quiet. Lady leans up against me and I don’t try to move her away. I know what it’s like to be in a situation where you’re forced to have sex against your will, and I wish that someone had been able to rescue me from it. There were probably more tactful ways that I could have interrupted, but I’ve never been known for tact, and what’s done is done. My heart thumps as I try not to think about the fallout that will come from this for either of us.

Once the cab arrives at its destination, we climb out, walk into the Training Center lobby, and head to the main elevators to take us back to our apartment. Lady presses the button, and after a moment, the elevator dings and we step inside.

“Do you need anything?” I ask as the elevator takes us up to the fifth floor. “I mean, do you want me to—”

“No, I’m okay,” she says quickly. She clears her throat and says quietly, “Thank you, Elijah.”

“You’re welcome,” I answer. The doors open, and Lady releases my arm. I didn’t realize she had still been hanging onto me, but the lack of warmth is startling. I step out of the elevator and say, “See you later.”

“Bye,” she says.

As the doors close, all I can think is that I might have royally screwed over my tribute to save Lady, and I wonder if it was worth it. All the anger and hatred that had filled me and propelled me forward vanishes, and it takes everything within me to keep myself upright.


	21. Chapter 21

The day stretches on. I sit in front of the television with my earphones in and listen to the Hunger Games. Now, however, I have the freedom to choose whatever tribute I want to follow. Even if the television isn’t showing James, I am officially connected to my monitoring device and can access each tribute as desired.

My tribute assesses his supplies and finds himself well-stocked. Still, that will only last so long, and he knows that he needs to find shelter, food, and weapons as soon as possible. He finds a good-sized rock and drops it into a sheath made for his water bottle; not as good as a sword, sure, but could do some serious damage if he swings it hard enough. He places the water bottle into his backpack and slips the new weapon over his shoulder. Food, on the other hand, is far more challenging to find. Any plants are covered by snow, and there are few animals around; not that he’d be able to hunt them even if he could.

Or so I think. Because in the afternoon, James searches through the snow until he finds some decent rocks. He waits quietly for birds to settle on branches near him, and the he lets the rocks fly. It takes a couple of tries before he gets a hit, and the bird drops out of the tree.

Huh. So maybe stalking the Career tributes in the Training Center paid off. . . .

After an hour of this, he has killed three birds, and that has to be enough for the time being. He keeps walking until he finds a place where he stops, gathers firewood (an arduous task in and of itself), and builds a fire over which he cooks them. He leaves the food that the Capitol provided him in his bag for later when he can’t hunt, and he eats the birds for dinner. When he’s done, he puts out the fire, covers it with snow, and keeps moving.

I check in on Maggie, too. She meets up with the District 6 male, Teddy, and the two of them put as much distance between themselves and the Cornucopia as possible before they stop to check their bags and address Maggie’s wound. They are also well stocked with supplies, but unlike James, they don’t realize that if they can find other resources right now, they’d be better off saving their supplies for later; come evening, they break out their food and allow themselves a meager meal.

But, of course, I can’t focus on just these two tributes; I have to understand what all players are doing. So I check in on the others and spend the most time on the Careers to understand their plan. I’m not surprised that Artemis is a vocal player in this Career pack, but it seems strange that the others don’t have a problem with this.

Suddenly I wonder if I would have died if her sister, Athena, had been part of a ‘normal’ Career pack. She was well-liked by the viewers at home and she was good at what she did; it only makes sense that she would have been able to have a fair chance at victory if she had been around people who were even halfway human. It’s a sobering thought, and I have to clutch onto the armchair of the couch and wrench myself away from the great burst of overwhelming sadness that suddenly fills me. I can’t think about the past when I need to focus on the present. It takes some time before I can focus on my tribute, though the lingering melancholy never truly dissipates.

As daylight begins to wane, James finds himself a little thicket covered in snow. He digs a hole in the snow under the dense branches that’s just big enough for him to slip his bag and then himself into, and then he tries to pat the snow back in place. He lays a thin reflective blanket underneath him and wraps himself up in it. Maggie and Teddy find a small cave and make themselves as comfortable as they can.

When the anthem plays, all three of them watch from the relative safety of their new shelters. The faces of twelve kids are displayed in the sky; no one has died since the bloodbath.

Now that the tributes have found shelter for the night, there’s nothing for the Capitol to do but display replays of the bloodbath. When that grows old, they try to dig up something exciting to entertain the citizens because, honestly, watching kids tremble in their little dark, cold caves isn’t very entertaining. Even rotating between announcers so that various local TV newscasters can get their opinions in must lose its luster because then Caligula and Janice are back discussing the remaining tributes and what they have found out about each of them.

Janice goes on about the various tributes, praising the wonders of the Careers and all the glorious things they’ve done in their short lives. It makes me suspicious that these kids didn’t actually accomplish that much, but that someone fabricated backgrounds to cover for the copious time spent training instead of actually doing something worthwhile. Now they all have excellent grades and hours of community service and they’re well-loved by their classmates and teachers. The fact that they’re so good with weapons is brushed over like killing kids is a skill that any boy or girl who gets As in tests and volunteers at a food bank has.

To my surprise, the kid from District 3, Tech, gets some attention. Normally District 3 is overlooked, but between his mentor Gamma’s interview a few days ago and Tech’s quick maneuvering in the Cornucopia, he’s earned himself the media’s eye. So we get to hear about his school and hobbies. Things that the Capitol can quickly dig up about the tributes. More detailed searches will come later once the number of tributes has been reduced.

We also get to hear about Maggie, and there’s plenty of information to back up her interview and how great of a soccer star she is. In fact, I’d say that Maggie was pretty humble compared to her actual record. Her team had dozens of first-place ranking in tournaments and even more second and third place rankings. She’s been awarded VIP many times. Plus she has also won a couple events in various academic competitions. The Capitol cares less about that, of course, but it shows that she has some intelligence, and that might be reason enough to support her.

Finally they get to James. I sit up straighter and hone into the television, muting the feed on my headphones. It doesn’t surprise me that they reveal that he has no family and that he’s a foster kid. That is easy enough to pull from the government records. Multiple homes, many school changes, gaps in education. To Janice and Caligula’s credit, they try to skim over that and get to perhaps the one positive thing they can say: he has not fallen too far behind in his academic work despite the challenges he faced. It’s a relief when they finally move on to the next tribute.

It was only a matter of time before the country became aware of James’ history, and I’m just grateful that they didn’t go into any details about the substance abuse in his mother’s house or all of the fights he got into over the years. I’m sure it’ll come up in the future if he lives long enough, and I’ll have to be prepared to answer for these things.

Since I’m not going to sleep anytime soon and nothing’s happening in the arena, I spend some time going over ideas for how I’ll spin James’ rough upbringing. There are so many factors to take into consideration, and I struggle with poking flaws in all of my plans so that I can have an answer should the Capitol bring up something I might not initially anticipate. I work in Janice and Caligula’s comments about him keeping up his academics as a testament to his abilities to face challenges, and I decide that a general ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ approach is appropriate for the situation.

I stay up well into the night flipping between tributes, but I learn nothing of great importance. All of the remaining tributes appear to understand the importance of shelter and they stay within whatever little den they’ve found for themselves, and even the Careers have to find a way to keep warm during the night. The Capitol has provided plenty of nooks and crannies for tributes to stow away in; I suppose that leaving them with nothing would just mean a shorter Hunger Games. But, of course, it also means that things won’t be that exciting come nighttime. There will never be that thrill that anything could happen.

Sooner or later, I suppose, the Capitol will rectify that. Maybe they’ll melt all the snow or force the tributes into a different part of the arena without so many options for cover. But whatever they do, they’ll have to make sure they have their viewers at home in mind.


	22. Chapter 22

I sleep overnight on the couch in the District 5 apartment and wake up feeling like shit. Immediately my hand goes to my monitoring device and I check for updates. One tribute, the District 12 male, died overnight from hypothermia. Honestly, I’m surprised that not any others died. That leaves eleven tributes remaining. And, of course, the entire Career pack is healthy and well.

But the other tributes who are alive are doing pretty good themselves. A couple of scrapes and bruises, but overall they are handling the challenging arena decently. Even Maggie’s wound she received in the Cornucopia has already started to heal without sign of infection.

James is already awake and looking for more food sources. He has also replenished the water in his bottle with snow. Even though ‘nothing’ is happening in the arena, it’s difficult to force myself to move for the day. Besides the avoxes, nobody is here, so it’s not like I have to worry about making myself presentable for anyone; it’s nearly noon by the time I manage to get myself off the couch and into my bedroom where the bed tries to tempt me to take a nap in the hope that the sore muscles I woke up with will sort themselves out. But I keep myself focused on the shower and brushing my teeth and putting on fresh clothes, and then I have to face the fact that I need to go to the mentoring room. Not to be social or to give my tribute some sort of advantage but because I have to use my computer to ‘look’ at the full map.

I’m halfway to the mentoring room when I realize I forgot to eat breakfast. It probably wouldn’t be that bad except that it’s early afternoon and I haven’t eaten anything since—well, actually, I don’t remember. Maybe I ate lunch yesterday.

Anyhow, it’s irrelevant. I can get food after I do what I need to do.

With over half the tributes dead, the mentoring room is pretty empty with most mentors concentrated on my ‘half’ of the room. The District 3 girl and District 6 girl are the only ones dead on this side, and Lady’s tribute is the only one alive on the other side. I’d ask Lady to join me in Solar’s spot, but I’m not feeling sociable right now and it’s all I can do to get myself to my computer desk and sit down.

The Career mentors are in a good mood. There’s much joviality from their region, and it’s frustrating when one’s trying to concentrate on the information one is given and they keep laughing or talking loudly to each other. Around the third time I try to pull up the map and end up opening something else entirely, I stand up and stalk off to the lounge to find myself some coffee.

Lady joins me. I almost don’t hear her until she’s next to me, and it’s only by the grace of God that I don’t turn around and nail her with the coffee cup I’m filling at the machine. Or maybe because I’m too damned tired to do anything and if she really were a threat it would be easier to die than defend myself.

“Thank you for yesterday,” she says to me quietly.

Yesterday? Oh, right. I pull the cup away from the spigot and reach for a lid. Fortunately things are kept in roughly the same locations every year.

“You’re welcome,” I answer. I snap the lid in place over the top of the cup.

“But I think I understand now that I don’t have a choice,” she says, her voice dropping even lower.

“What do you mean?” I ask, though the lurch in my stomach tells me that I already know what she’s referring to. When a rich Capitolite wants you, you don’t get to tell them no; many victors learn this the hard way. For some it’s only a night or two, but for others it’s an ongoing life-long ordeal.

She exhales slowly. “I was invited over to his place this evening,” she says. “And I can’t say no this time.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. To think that I might have made matters worse by trying to help her does nothing to make this situation any better. “I really should have handled it better. . . . I didn’t think that there might be repercussions. It was stupid, I’m sorry.”

“If anything, you bought me more time to compose myself,” she answers. “I wasn’t expecting to have something like this happen, and I wasn’t really dealing with it too well. . . . Anyway, I should get back to my station.”

“You’re welcome to take Solar’s spot, if you want,” I say.

“Thanks, but I’m okay where I am,” she says. “I’ll drop by later.”

“Alright,” I answer, but she’s already walking away.

I linger by the coffee machine for a few moments longer as I give her the space she needs. We victors don’t talk about these things; the conversation that we just had, from my understanding of inter-victor relations, is almost unheard of. Sure, we know that other people go through crap, but that doesn’t mean that we discuss it openly. Those are the sorts of secrets we keep to ourselves and never let out except in the most desperate of circumstances. Pitch says you get used to it, but I don’t know how; not when I hear the hopelessness in Lady’s words or think about the sleazy voice of the man who was preying on her yesterday.

At last I wander back to my station and sit down at my desk. I set my coffee in the cup holder and focus on my screen. But stepping away from my computer did nothing to help me; in fact, if anything it only distracted me even more, and now I struggle to even read the braille buttons. I rub my forehead and tell myself that I just need to focus for a few minutes and then the coffee will set in.

So I place my hands back on the screen and manage to find the map button. The surface changes; now the dots no longer line up to form words and sentences and paragraphs. They create a map (or as much of a map that we have access to at this time) with the dots forming borders and boundaries and landmarks. There are still words to let me know what I’m feeling beneath my fingertips. And little markers with the district number and sex to locate the current position of each tribute on the map. I can follow the tributes around with just a light touch.

I turn back to ‘all tributes’ tab to keep track of the remaining tributes, but I find that I have to keep starting over each time I get to the end of a line. About the twentieth time this happens, I drop my hands away and wonder why the caffeine isn’t working.

And then I remember that I haven’t actually drank any yet.

What the hell is _wrong_ with me?

Shit, this is going to be a long Hunger Games.

I pick up the cup and take a sip. The warm coffee fills my mouth, and I chug the entire cup back before even considering that maybe I shouldn’t have done that.

As I swallow the last bit of coffee, I think that my entire life is a long string of ‘maybe I shouldn’t have done that.’

Well, anyway, I got what I wanted to out of this quaint little trip to the mentoring room, so I might as well get back to the District 5 floor where I can let my brain be mush without worrying that other people are judging me. But the moment I stand up, my head swirls as dizziness overtakes me, and I collapse back down into my chair. Pretending like that was what I meant to do, I begin poking at my computer screen again. The good news on this is that nobody else knows what I’m looking at, so it’s harder to tell that I’m failing at walking today and maybe they all think it was me deciding to stick around for another minute longer.

After another minute, I stand up more slowly and hang onto the back of my chair for support. This time the dizziness dissipates almost immediately, and once it clears, I allow myself to walk across the room towards the door. I nearly miss it, but fortunately the tip of my cane hits the frame and guides me in the right direction. As I walk down the hall towards the elevator, I keep a hand on the wall.

Somebody joins me in my brief wait for the elevator. I know it’s Ferrer, and I know he’s going to give me another lecture about something or another, so I pretend that I don’t notice that he’s here. If he insists on following me, that’s fine, but he’ll have to get off at the District 2 floor. So then it becomes a battle of who is the more stubborn, and of course I win that because there’s really no competition here.

But to my annoyance, when we’re on the elevator that takes us to the apartments, Ferrer does not get off at the second floor; instead he steps off into the District 5 apartment right after me.

“What do you want?” I ask sharply, not caring if I’m being rude. I planned on going to my room and lying down for a bit while I listened to whatever’s going on in the arena, but obviously that’s been screwed up with Ferrer present. And I find that I’m too exhausted to stand here for much longer, so I wander into the closest room to the elevator, the dining room, and take a seat at the table.

Ferrer follows me, but doesn’t bother to sit down. He paces back and forth for a second, and then he turns on me.

“Listen, Elijah, you have two choices here,” he says sternly. “One, you keep doing this to yourself and then you end up in the hospital and your tribute in a grave, or two, you take care of yourself and get the help you need.”

“I don’t need—” I start to say with an unfathomable amount of stupidity. I’m grateful when Ferrer cuts me off so that I don’t have to hear my own idiocy.

“Yes, you _do_ need help,” he snaps. “Stop being a moron and think about this! You’re so fucked up you can barely walk in a straight line! If they called you to do an interview _right now_ would you be able to do it?”

I scoff at this, but Ferrer isn’t having any of it.

“I asked you a question!” he shouts. “If you had to be interviewed right now, would you somehow be able to get through it without fucking everything up?!”

In all the time I’ve spent with Ferrer, he has never once spoken to me like this. And it’s in this moment that I realize that no matter how much I want to pretend that I’m okay, I’m not. Because if I were, he would never talk to me like this. In the echoing stillness that follows his words, I run my hand against the wooden table and let the seriousness of the situation sink in. I am a mess. I can barely function. I can’t concentrate. I struggle to do basic tasks. My fingers feel the wood grain of the table, and I try to work up the nerve to say something knowing that nothing really needs to be said and the truth speaks plainly enough on its own.

“No,” I answer. “I would not.”

“Great,” he says, his voice back to a more reasonable level but the irritation still quite prominent. “Go call Harmony. Right now.”

“I don’t need Harmony,” I say. “I’ll—I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. But I don’t need therapy.”

“You need therapy,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“I am literally the only victor who has a therapist,” I say.

“Yes, and you are also literally the only victor without eyes,” he retorts. I start, and he draws in a sharp breath and lets it out slowly. He pulls out one of the chairs. The wood creaks as he lowers himself into the seat. When he speaks again, he is calmer. “I’m sorry, Elijah. I didn’t mean to make a personal dig. If any other victor had come into the mentoring room in the state you’re in, it would be concerning, sure. You, though, you lack one of your senses. You can’t rely on your sight in the same way the rest of us do in order to help you out when you’re not feeling your best. So yes, you do need therapy so that you don’t find yourself totally screwed over.”

Learning to live without vision has been challenging, to say the least. For years I’ve been working towards the closest thing to normalcy that I can find. But one of the absolutely hardest parts, time and time again, is accepting that I am different. I know that I am and I understand that the world around me has been modified to accommodate these differences, and yet I constantly hold myself to the same standards that I would if I were still the same person I once was. Even in situations in which it is appropriate to do this, I find myself expecting me to complete things in the same time frame that I would before. And here is yet another difference: victors are not allowed to have therapy because to say that a victor needed mental or emotional help following victory would mean that there was something inherently damaging about the Hunger Games. Everyone knows there is, but it’s not something allowed to happen. Some victors manage to get themselves the help they need, but most keep the nightmares at bay with alcohol or drugs or whatever other coping mechanism they can get their hands on.

And then there’s me. I received therapy not because I am a victor and went through the most traumatizing thing anyone can have the honor of experiencing but because of my blindness. Harmony is a psychiatric nurse who specializes in ocular trauma; he was employed to help me recover from my vision loss, not from my time in the arena. But he wasn’t satisfied merely to help me learn to feed and bathe myself; he saw that I was struggling mentally after the things I’d been through. He managed to provide me therapy when I needed it the most, and he supported me when I was at my lowest.

Despite knowing that I need help, I won’t accept it now. I’ve adjusted to my blindness; that’s good enough, right? Now I should be held to the same standards as everyone else, even if it means that I’ll have to suffer through everything on my own. Even though I know that what Ferrer says makes sense.

“Elijah. Go call Harmony,” Ferrer says gently. “I’ll be right here.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me listen. Maybe he’s finally struck the place within me that really understands just how screwed up I am. Without another word, I stand up and walk out of the room and into the hallway. It takes me a little longer than normal, and for a moment I think I have the wrong room entirely as I fumble on the wall for the lock. But finally my fingers come across it and I press my thumb against the pad and the door opens.

Once I’m in the room with the door closed, I pull out my phone and dial Harmony’s number. As I listen to the phone ring, I pray I’ll get voicemail. Then I panic because I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say and I’d rather fumble my way through a conversation than leaving a nonsensical message. But finally the call connects.

 _“Harmony Miller,”_ comes the voice from the other side.

“Hi, Harmony. This is Elijah,” I say.

When I hang up the phone, I shove it back in my pocket and fumble my way back to the hall. Then I return to the dining room and take my seat at the table again. True to his word, Ferrer remains where I left him.

“He’ll get me in tomorrow,” I say quietly.

“Good,” Ferrer answers. He stands up now, and says, “Get some food. Get some sleep. If you need anything, call me. But unless it’s an emergency, don’t come back down to the mentoring room without taking care of yourself.”

I almost point out that a couple days ago, he was insisting that I go to the mentoring room or else, but I have no energy for sarcasm. So I nod and manage to give him a respectable ‘thank you’ to which he tells me that it’s not a problem. Then he tells somebody else (an avox, I assume; I think I can hear jingling bells) that I need to eat and I’m not allowed to turn down whatever they serve me. As the avoxes disappear into the kitchen, Ferrer presses the elevator button and heads back to the mentoring room.


	23. Chapter 23

Although he officially works at the hospital, Harmony insists that I meet him at his house where he has a nice little sitting room that he described as ‘professional.’ The official reason is that he wants to make sure that I’m in a comfortable environment without worrying about the public seeing me come and go from the hospital, but in reality it’s because it’s ‘clean’ here. Free from bugs. He has assured me in the past that he routinely searches his house to make sure nothing was sneaked in without his knowledge.

I keep checking my monitoring device on the cab drive to Harmony’s place. I listen to the feed through my headphones. Nothing’s really happening. Good and bad. It’s always good and bad. You don’t want anything to happen to your tribute, but you know that things are going to get worse when the Capitol finds things too ‘boring.’ Snowy arenas are generally classified as boring to begin with, so Gamemakers must preemptively send muttations and events to keep things interesting. But at the same time, I remind myself, with thirteen tributes dead already, they don’t want to end things too early.

The cab comes to a stop. I thank the driver and climb out. After a couple of feet, I pause and feel around until my fingers touch a slab of thin metal. My hand moves around it until it forms the shape of a mailbox, and I stop on the side where my fingers find raised numbers with the house address. Satisfied that I’m in the right place (and weirdly comforted by the familiar shape of the numbers), I make my way up the path and to the front door. When I reach it, I knock firmly on the solid wood and wait for him to answer. I shift uneasily from foot to foot and strain to hear movement from inside.

At last the door opens and Harmony says, “Elijah. Good to see you again. Come on in.”

My cane moves before me as I step inside. Harmony keeps out of its way easily enough, and he closes the door behind me.

“Right this way,” he says to me, and he leads me to the front room. The first time I was here, he described this room to me. ‘Comfortable’ and ‘private’ he said. He had the curtains tightly shut, he told me, so that people wouldn’t see us in here and I wouldn’t be distracted wondering who was outside looking in. Then he allowed me to explore the room for myself and become familiar with the layout.

I find my usual seat on a couch and plop down on one side. He doesn’t change furniture around much, he had said; I’m not the only patient who comes to his house for therapy sometimes. I know for a fact he started helping the girl who turned down surgery for her degenerative vision loss after I won the Hunger Games; I don’t ask, but I’m always curious if he managed to persuade her to get her eyes fixed before it’s too late. Anyhow, moving around furniture on a bunch of blind and nearly-blind people isn’t the smartest move, so things tend to stay the same.

“Would you like anything to drink?” he asks me before he takes his seat.

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” I say. I’ve likely exceeded the amount of coffee I should drink today, but I didn’t sleep that well last night and I wanted to be at least somewhat presentable to make the short trip out here.

Harmony comes and sits down in a chair across from me.

“What brings you in here today?” he asks.

I hesitate. It’s hard to admit that I didn’t want to come here, but I also know that Harmony knows me well enough that there’s no use trying to pretend it was anything but someone twisting my arm that brought me in. Nothing like telling someone that you didn’t want to see them, but I guess that goes with the job.

“Ferrer told me to call you,” I say. “He said that I needed to.”

“Okay. And you didn’t agree with him?” he asks.

“No. I guess I didn’t want to admit that I needed to come,” I tell him. And then I go on to describe the situation and how Ferrer had told me multiple times to come here, and how he was telling me that I wasn’t sociable enough and I wasn’t taking care of myself and whatever else. It’s hard not to sound bitter when I say this; I don’t want to throw him under the bus and I know he’s right even if I’m loath to admit it, yet I’m still frustrated that it even came to this.

Harmony takes in everything I say with only the occasional question for clarification. Finally when I finish, he says, “How are you doing, Elijah? How are you handling everything?”

I laugh humorlessly. “This is the Hunger Games, Harmony. How do you think I’m doing?” I counter, directly skirting around the details of why this event bothers me.

Funny that there are some things that I’m not comfortable talking with my therapist about even though he knows me so well and worked closely with me following my victory, but even in a place that is ‘clean’ like this, I still can’t bring myself to delve into why the Hunger Games terrorize me three years later. I think it’s clear by now, though, that most of this stuff will forever haunt me.

“Alright, let me ask you some questions,” he says. “How have you been sleeping?”

“Not well,” I answer. “Ferrer seemed to think I look like a train wreck, so I thought it was obvious.”

“You don’t look like a ‘train wreck,’” he answers. “How about appetite? Have you been eating well?”

“When I remember,” I admit. “It was easier when there were set meal times.”

“What about your energy level?”

“Maybe if I got more sleep it would be better. . . . In the meantime, I just have the support of caffeine.”

I’m beginning to see why Ferrer said I’m not taking care of myself. No sleep, no food, no energy. As much as I tried to keep it to myself, it was probably pretty damned obvious that I was falling apart. But those things are easily enough fixed; I can make a schedule for myself and take a half-dose of sleeping pills just to get to sleep at night. I twist my ring around my finger and resolve that I will put more effort into taking care of myself. If I can. If I don’t feel like shit so much that I can barely move.

“In the past couple weeks, have you been feeling lower than normal?” he asks me.

“Harmony. Hunger Games,” I remind him. “Kind of hard not to.”

“What about before that?” he asks.

“What about it?” I answer because I’m not sure what to say. Before the Hunger Games was . . . rough. The anticipation of coming to the Capitol, dealing with the news of the baby and the subsequent parenting classes. . . . I draw in a deep breath and try to steady my brain.

“What was going on before then? How were you doing?” he replies.

Everything in my life revolves around the Hunger Games, just as the Capitol desires. I don’t want it to be that way, and I try to make a life for myself outside of it. I kept in touch with my friends, I got married, I found various activities to do in order to keep busy. Sometimes I can fool myself into thinking that life is okay and I’m succeeding in something. But the nightmares always pull me back.

“I . . . I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “Sometimes I’m fine and sometimes I’m not.”

“Can you describe it?” he asks.

I shake my head, unable to find words.

He gives me a few moments, but when it’s clear that I have nothing to say, he continues, “Last time we spoke, you told me that you and Marie had just found out that she was pregnant and you were having trouble accepting it. How has that been?”

I tap my hand against the armrest and try to find some eloquent way to speak, but it doesn’t happen. Instead I just say whatever comes to mind first.

“When Lucinda broke up with me, she said that it was because she couldn’t imagine me being a father to her children,” I say. “She didn’t want her kids to grow up with a dad who had bashed people’s heads in with rocks. And I—I can’t stop thinking about that.”

“Has Marie said anything to indicate that she feels the same way?” Harmony asks.

“No,” I say. “She says that I’ll be fine. But knowing that I am capable of that violence. . . .”

“What about that concerns you?” he asks.

“Everything,” I say. And when Harmony asks for clarification, I go on: how terrified I am that I could inadvertently inflict that violence on a child who can’t defend itself; how shitty it would be to be raised by a parent who was known for violent murder; how the kid would have to grow up not just dealing with my blindness but also the constant nightmares. The list goes on, and Harmony lets me talk. In the end, he tells me that they are valid concerns and that we have a lot to work with; I can’t expect to have them resolved immediately, but over time the fear will lessen.

“What were you doing to keep busy back home?” he asks me as the conversation shifts to new topics. When I furrow my brow but don’t answer, he follows up with, “Are you still playing soccer?”

“Haven’t lately,” I say. “Just kind of wasn’t as important.”

“What about reading?” he asks. “Or listening to audiobooks?”

“Been too busy,” I say.

“Busy with what?” he asks.

“Busy with—” but I stop because I really don’t know what I’ve been ‘busy’ doing. As a victor, I don’t have a job outside of just being alive (which sometimes seems like a job in and of itself), so I should have time for hobbies or other activities. Even though Marie and I have been setting aside time to get ready for the baby, there is still plenty of time leftover to challenge George to a game of soccer or whittle wood with Grandpa. But none of that has been happening.

So I finally give in and say, “I don’t know. I’ve watched a few movies with Marie (at home, of course) and taken Marty on a couple walks.”

“Do you know why you haven’t been engaging in your usual hobbies lately?” he asks.

I shrug. “Doesn’t seem worth the effort, I suppose,” I answer.

Harmony’s pencil scratches against the surface of the paper he’s making notes on. He always does it during our meetings but assured me that he wouldn’t put down anything that would get me in trouble in any way. Once his pencil stops, he flips through a few pages before I hear him tapping the pencil against the pad of paper.

“Elijah, are you familiar with depression?” he asks.

“I’m pretty sure I’m not depressed,” I answer, sitting up a little straighter and furrowing my brow. But when I say it, I’m not sure it’s true. I mean, I don’t want to kill myself, but I sure as hell am not feeling like I normally do.

“Based on our discussion today and our discussions in the past, it’s clear that things have changed,” he explains. “I’ll collect a blood sample to run a few tests back at the hospital to rule out any physical issues, but you have many symptoms and it’s clear that they’re troubling you and affecting your life.”

“Er, well, I tend to get stressed around the Hunger Games,” I say stubbornly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m depressed.”

“Just because you are required to mentor for the Hunger Games and normally experience shifts in mood around this time of year doesn’t mean that it’s not depression,” Harmony says. “Depression is characterized by loss of interest in your surroundings or previous hobbies, and low moods. We have a list of different symptoms that are typically associated with depression, and I’ve checked off many things on that list as we talked. . . . So let’s have a discussion about what depression is and what we can do about it.”

Well shit. Maybe it would have been better if I stayed in the Training Center and not come out to talk with him. I don’t need _even more_ on my plate. How am I going to manage a tribute while dealing with this? How am I going to manage _two_ tributes? I shift in my seat uneasily and my breathing starts to quicken. It takes me a second to realize it, and then I have to manually instruct myself to get back under control. I try to focus on the conversation, on the present, but I have to fight off the overwhelming sensation of drowning before I can even begin to stabilize myself.

Harmony waits patiently until I manage to not have a breakdown, and I finally say, “Yeah, okay.”

“Great,” he says. He gives me another couple of seconds to focus and then he continues, “Depression is not uncommon, but it comes in different forms. In general, they all involve loss of interest in hobbies, lack of interest in surroundings, lower moods, and maybe self-isolation. It can result in behavioral issues and physical symptoms, so it’s not uncommon to have problems eating or sleeping or difficulty focusing on tasks. There are different severities of depression as well. . . .”

Harmony continues on with his spiel, giving me the complete run-down of what depression is and what it isn’t, focusing on it from both a biological and a psychiatric perspective. He explains that just because I don’t have any desire to off myself doesn’t mean that I’m not affected by this mood disorder and I should take it seriously. He also tells me that I can’t compare my own depressive symptoms with anyone else’s and think that I’m not in need of help because what I experience seemingly isn’t as bad as another person’s. The entire time he speaks, he sounds weirdly optimistic, like he’d just told me great news. I don’t know why because this all sounds so damned terrible. If what he’s saying is correct, my brain is literally out to get me and now I have to try to convince it that it’s okay to produce happy chemicals. Harmony moves on to treatment options and I follow along quietly, but the moment he mentions medications, I am out of listening mode.

“No,” I say.

“That’s what you said about the sleep medication when I first prescribed it, but it did help you, didn’t it?” he says.

“Yes it did, but I’m not taking some Capitol-sponsored mood-altering drug,” I protest.

“How much alcohol do you drink?” he asks.

“I have a glass every now and then. Why?” I ask.

“Because that is a Capitol-sponsored mood-altering drug, too,” he says.

There’s no winning with this guy. I grit my teeth and don’t respond to that. Sure, I have alcohol sometimes, but medication is different. I can regulate how much alcohol I drink and stop when I know I’ve had enough. Any sort of medication he gives me won’t work that way, and I’ll be at the mercy of whatever shit it has in it until the drugs wear off.

“I’m not going to force you to take medication, and I’d want to get the blood test results back before I prescribe anything even if you were interested,” he says. “It is one option that combined with other things will improve your recovery time. But we will discuss what you can do at home to work on this. Additionally, I’ll want to see you back here twice a week as long as you’re in the Capitol, okay?”

“Alright,” I say, relieved that I won’t be drugged out of my mind. But still the severity of what he just dumped on me begins to sink in, and I wonder what the repercussions will be for something like this. This isn’t something he can just give me a shot for and it’ll go away; as he continues with the treatment options, I realize that this might be something I’ll have my entire life. I could seriously be screwed up for all eternity. I rub my forehead and try not to be completely overwhelmed.

“Elijah?” he asks, and I realize that I’ve spaced out entirely.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to need to draw blood for a few lab tests,” he says.

I comply and roll up my sleeve. Harmony draws blood from my arm. I hold the cotton ball in place while he does whatever he needs to do in order to get the blood prepped for the lab, and I listen to the stillness of the house. For the first time, I wonder about Harmony’s family. I know that awhile back he was dating someone, but he never divulged a name or the slightest hint about who it was, and I never asked because it wasn’t my business. Where is that person now? If I were able to see, would I notice pictures of him and his family and friends in this very room? What all am I missing by having no vision?

No wonder Ferrer was so insistent I get help. I _can’t_ just look at everything around me and try to figure out what’s going on when things are getting too confusing. I’m so absorbed within myself and I have no way to actually assess the world around me.

Harmony removes the cotton ball and dabs something on my arm to heal the puncture wound left by the needle.

“This is what I want you to do while we wait for the test results, okay,” he says as I roll my sleeve back into place. “Eat three nutritious meals a day, go to sleep at a regular time every night, and get some exercise. The Training Center has an exercise room for victors, right?”

“I’ve heard rumors of it,” I say. But I’ve never actually known someone who went out of their way to use it.

“Find it and use it,” he says. “Is there any place for you to go get fresh air?”

“I don’t know,” I answer. “I haven’t really had any reason to spend time outside my apartment except where absolutely necessary.”

“See if you can find out so that you can at least spend a few minutes outside,” he tells me. “I understand that you don’t have the time to take a walk outside the Training Center, but you should still at least get some sunlight daily.”

“Alright,” I say. This is quite a list of things to do, and already I begin to panic thinking about the time that it’ll take me away from my tribute. I twist my ring on my finger and try not to allow myself to get too worked up.

“Elijah, are you alright?” he asks.

I open my mouth to say that I am, but I hesitate. Wasn’t pretending that I was fine what got me into this mess?

“How the hell am I supposed to work up the energy to do any of this while still taking care of my tribute?” I ask a little more roughly than I intended. I tack on a “Sorry” after a moment’s pause.

“Start small, Elijah,” he says. “Be satisfied in your accomplishments, even if they aren’t large. Over time, it will get easier.”

Same thing he had told me many times when I first had to come to terms with my blindness.

“Standard pep talk,” I comment. 

He laughs. “Was it not true before?”

“Really large hurdle to jump over first,” I say, not fully willing to admit that he’s right. Still, I had support back then. Now I have no one. Harmony’s across the city, Ferrer and the other mentors must be kept at an arm’s length, and my wife and family are in another part of the country. The Capitol has isolated me even when I’m here among a crowd, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“Yes, it will be hard, but you will be okay in the end,” he says. “You remember when you first returned home and had to learn new skills? This is similar. See it as nothing more than adding new tools to your toolbox.”

I nod. Again, not convinced, yet hoping that maybe things will start to make sense once I have time to digest them.

“Anything else before you leave?” he asks.

“No, I’m fine,” I say as we begin walking. “Thank you.”

“Great, then I want to see you back in two days,” he says. I hear him stand up and I follow suit.

Once we’re at the door, he says to me, “Sometimes, Elijah, just having a name for what you’re experiencing and knowing that you aren’t alone does wonders.”

I shake my head. “I think I’d rather be left in the dark,” I say.

He smiles as he says, “Give it a couple of weeks, and your thoughts on that might change.”

A couple of weeks is a long time when you have a kid’s life dangling in front of you. But I just thank Harmony again and promise to return at the same time in two days. As I step outside onto the porch, I tell myself that I just need to get through the rest of today and tomorrow, and then I’ll come back here and Harmony will tell me that the depression diagnosis is a fluke and my thyroid is a piece of shit but can be fixed easily enough.

Yet as I head down the steps and onto the walkway, I know that it won’t work out so smoothly. This is just how life goes for victors.


	24. Chapter 24

As surreal as that conversation was, it seems to vanish the moment I step foot in the Training Center. Here it doesn’t matter if I’m blind and depressed. I still have the exact same duty as every other victor, and if I fail that duty, my tribute dies. There’s no way I can deal with the stress of having a tribute who died because I wasn’t strong enough to function.

I take the elevator back to my apartment, but no sooner do I get there than I realize I have a text from the Capitol: another damned interview.

The only thing I can think is that I am so glad that I am in better shape today than I was yesterday.

I have enough time to freshen up, and then I force myself to eat a snack before I head back downstairs to the lobby. They finished erecting the stage yesterday, and now it’s ready for the first batch of interviews. As soon as the elevator door opens and I step onto the smooth floors of the lobby, one of the Training Center coordinators appears and begins chattering to me about how things are all ready to go and I will just need to wait a few minutes. She says that two other mentors were interviewed this morning and they’re waiting to hear what the rest of today’s schedule will be. I barely hear her because I’m reminding myself that I can do this and I have already figured out some decent things to say.

I won’t mess this up. I can’t screw up James’ chances.

All interviews held on the Training Center stages are in front of an audience and broadcasted live for everyone who isn’t able to make it in person to watch. The coordinator tells me about the stage layout because they won’t be able to have me get situated behind the privacy of curtains before being revealed to the public. I stand next to her for only a minute before she tells me that it’s time.

Once again, Caligula is the interviewer. This brings me a hair of comfort knowing that it’s unlikely anything too dramatic is happening in the arena if they have their interviewer out here talking with us victors and not in a studio somewhere helping Janice narrate. I find my chair and pretend to make myself comfortable.

“Welcome back, Elijah!” Caligula greets me like we’re old friends.

“Yes, hi,” I say. Bit of a lackluster greeting, but I can’t muster up the energy to pretend that I want to be here any more than I have ever been able to pretend that I want to be in an interview. I think there’s an unspoken agreement between the two of us that he’ll try to pretend that this is an enjoyable experience and I’ll do my best to not get up and leave mid-question.

“Well, we have quite an exciting interview lined up,” he says to me, and already I dread whatever’s going to come out of his mouth next. “So many good topics to discuss today! So many questions we’re going to have answered.”

The crowd cheers in agreement, and I can only pray that whatever happens next, I am able to control myself _just enough_ so I don’t mess everything up.

_I’m going to get through this. I’m going to do this for James. Whatever it takes._

“Wow, I can’t wait,” I say with just enough sarcasm that it can’t really be taken for _true_ excitement. 

But it’s all Caligula needs to go on with the interview.

“Alright, Elijah, last time we talked about your wife’s pregnancy,” he says.

“Yep, that we did,” I agree.

“And you were a little testy,” he says. “I would have thought that it was _you_ having the mood swings, not your wife.” And then he dissolves into laughter at his own joke.

Yeah, I already hate this interview.

I clear my throat and sit up a little straighter.

“Must’ve been the lag from travel. Time zone differences and all,” I say in explanation. But I don’t offer any sort of apology for my behavior. They don’t deserve that.

“Alright, so all we got to know is that your wife is pregnant, but we don’t know any of the details,” Caligula says. “So let’s start at the beginning: when is she due?”

“Three months,” I answer.

“Three months, and do you know the sex?” he asks.

“Female,” I say.

“A girl! That’s exciting! How about a name?” the interviewer continues.

I inhale and remind myself that it’s okay if they know her name. It’s not going to change things. And, honestly, as much as I’d like to give them some random names or string them along, I can’t find it within myself to give a shit right now. My goal is to get through this interview, and I don’t have the energy to do any more but the bare minimum.

“Yes, we’ve already chosen one. Her name is Ella,” I say.

“That is a very pretty name,” Caligula says with a sigh. “Is it short for anything?”

“Er, no,” I say. “It’s a family name.”

It’s not. But who cares? At least it sounds somewhat decent. This might be the most mild-mannered ‘conversation’ Caligula and I have ever had. I would be proud of myself for managing to make the conversation more ‘interesting’ by giving the audience what they want to hear, but it’s hard to be proud of anything when you’re being forced to provide details to people you have no desire to associate with.

“You must be very excited and nervous,” he says.

And then he pauses as he waits for my reaction. I’m not sure I could get away with telling him that I’m not; partly because of my spectacular performance at the last interview and partly because Caligula’s kind of an asshole and would cajole me until I ‘told’ him how nervous I really am.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “Very excited. Super nervous.”

“As any new father would be,” he says. “But I think what we want to know, and I hope this isn’t too intrusive, is how you’re approaching fatherhood without vision. Isn’t that . . . a little dangerous?”

Yes of course it’s dangerous, but it’s far less dangerous than having to navigate the arena while blind. Obviously I can’t say that, so I take a second to compose myself and instead give him something a little more ‘appropriate.’ I dig up the conversation I had with Ferrer a few days ago, after that first interview, and remind myself that the Capitol viewers will love to hear any details, no matter how mundane.

“Well, I mean it’s not like I’m going to open the door and let my kid play in traffic any more than the next person. Vision loss isn’t common in the Capitol—nor is it in the districts—but we do have more people there with various degrees of blindness,” I start. “So there are parenting classes for people with blindness, which my wife and I are currently in. And it’s not that different from regular parenting classes. Just, erm, without eyes.”

“They really have parenting classes for blind people?” he asks with astonishment. “I’ve never heard of that.”

“Caligula, we’ve already established that you had no idea blind people existed before you met me, so I can’t say that I’m surprised you didn’t know about these classes,” I tell him flatly. He laughs at this, but I have to remind myself that I need to rein myself back in before I get too out of control.

“Right. I think you know me better than most,” he says lightly. “But what sort of things do they teach you in this classes?”

“All the same stuff that’s covered in most parenting classes,” I explain. “Everything from changing diapers and how to fix a bottle to keeping a baby safe.”

“This is just so fascinating,” he says with true interest. “You’re actually going to be able to change diapers?”

“Um, yeah,” I answer, not really wanting to get into too much detail about how to change diapers in front of all of Panem.

“This seems like a really big task for you, Elijah,” he says. Is he oblivious to how damned rude he is, or does he just not care? I take a breath and force myself to stay level as he continues, “Were you and your wife planning this?”

Right, okay. I remind myself that they really don’t give a rat’s ass whether we were or not. I just have to sound convincing because I really, _really_ don’t want it going on record that this kid was a complete accident.

“Yes. We’ve always wanted to start a family,” I say evenly.

“Well congratulations,” Caligula says. “I absolutely cannot wait to hear more about your newest family member. I think that we might not have time to go into all the details at this interview—” (Thank heavens) “—but we will definitely want to chat about this in future interviews.” (Damn. Well, figures.) “Let’s instead talk a bit about your tribute, okay?”

“Yeah, alright,” I say. He is the real reason I’m here after all. I subtly wipe my palm on the leg of my pants, running my hand across the fabric to dry off the sweat.

Fortunately I spent time thinking about how to answer all of Caligula’s questions about my tribute. I might not be graceful in my answers, but at least I _will_ have answers.

“Your tribute, James Faraday, has done remarkably well so far, between his performance at the bloodbath to navigating the arena,” Caligula begins. “What do you have to say about this?”

“We in District 5 aren’t strangers to cold weather, and James doesn’t give a shit about it,” I answer. “Clearly he knows enough about it to find food and shelter a lot quicker than the other tributes.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he agrees. “Now you won in an arena that was pretty cold yourself, though without snow. Do you think that this arena is reminiscent of your own?”

I take a moment before I answer. This is the sort of question that seems harmless, but the moment it rolls out of Caligula’s mouth, I know that there’s more behind it than just a simple question comparing my own experience in the arena to James’. Because to have two victors from District 5 in ‘similar’ arenas would be boring for people. Too repetitive. So while we both were experienced enough with the cold to deal with our arenas, I can’t draw too many comparisons between myself and him without potentially destroying his chances of winning simply because the Capitol can’t have too much repetition.

“Nah, not really,” I say casually. “Mine was cold, sure, but being in the snow is entirely different. And, honestly, I had no clue what the hell I was doing. James obviously does.”

“Yes, that’s very surprising—only a three in training, and yet he handles the arena like a true master,” he says.

“Yes, surprising,” I echo, though clearly not surprised.

“You’re holding out on us, Elijah. Is there something about James you’re not letting on?” he asks.

Good. He’s curious. That’s exactly what we need. If he and the audience are curious about James, it means that the Capitol is less likely to kill him for no reason. Knowing that Caligula has taken the bait gives me the smallest ounce of relief.

I shrug. “Guess we’ll have to see,” I reply.

“Now, we ourselves found out some surprising news about James,” Caligula says, and I struggle to hold onto whatever little bit of confidence I felt mere moments before because I know what’s coming and I really hope I can spin it right. “We recently found out that he is a foster child and has had a really rough home life.”

“That’s correct,” I agree. But my stomach twists and I know that he’s just setting this up for something I’m not going to like. No reason to just come out and say what you want when you can build up the excitement. Once again, I remind myself that I have this; I’ve gone over different things Caligula might ask, and I know how I’m going to play it.

“Now some people think that maybe James isn’t the best candidate for victory and that it should go to someone who has a family at home,” he says. “A family who supports him and who will be excited for him upon his victory.”

Shit shit shit! What the _hell_ do I say to that? I manage to maintain my composure while my brain flips through the various options, none of them sounding remotely acceptable. This is _not_ what I’d anticipate they’d ask. I am not prepared for this! Who the fuck decides that a kid isn’t worth supporting purely because he has no family?

_Probably the same bastards who think it would be great to put the kid unwillingly into the arena. The same ones who are interviewing you right this moment._

I draw in a breath but have no time to work through this with breathing exercises. Caligula has placed me on the spot and I have to answer _now_ before anyone gets it into their head that I, as his mentor, don’t believe that James is worth supporting. Anger—no, hatred—wells up within me and I struggle to keep myself from displaying the sudden and intense emotion.

“Well that’s bullshit,” I say. “I’m pretty sure it’s how one performs in the arena that determines whether he or she will be a good victor, not how many family members are at home.”

“True, performance in the arena is really the important thing,” Caligula agrees. “But there’s something really special about going home and celebrating your victory with your family, right?”

Oh, God. Please, don’t.

My family is dead. Within days of me returning home, they were killed. Mere _days_. Can’t celebrate one’s victory with your family when they’re dead because of your own stupidity.

The question stabs into my chest with a cold and debilitating pain. It takes me a second to recover enough to continue on with the interview. The tragedy that surrounds victory isn’t something often spoken about, and if it is, it’s spun in a completely different light. The fact that my family is dead isn’t technically a secret, but it certainly isn’t something spoken about in the Capitol. To them, everything is delightful back home in District 5. I can’t even fault Caligula for this question; it might have just been something entirely innocent.

And yet knowing that there was no malice behind it doesn’t help the ache within me.

This isn’t about me, I tell myself. Get over it and answer this question to save James.

“Sure, but it can just as easily be celebrated with friends or neighbors or complete strangers,” I answer.

“But it sounds like there’s not even anyone to interview him for the top eight,” Caligula says.

 _That’s_ what they’re concerned about?! Having their precious top eight interview? Would they really let James die simply because they wouldn’t have anyone to interview? _Of course they would._ I hate them. I hate them all. Once again, no time to think, just speak. And speak quickly.

“You can interview me for the top eight,” I say. “I obviously won’t know as much as a family member, but in absence of anyone better, interview me.”

The moment the words roll off my tongue, I know I’m going to regret this. I am _so_ going to regret this.

_But not if James makes it to the top eight. Not if he has a shot of victory._

No, I will do an additional interview of my own free will if it means that he’s not written off solely because he doesn’t have a family to return to.

“That’s very generous of you, Elijah!” Caligula says with warranted surprise. “I will definitely keep this in mind if James makes it to the top eight.”

“When,” I say. “James will make it.”

“We only have three tributes to go until we’re there, so I’m sure the chances are good!” he says. “Now, on the topic of tributes, what are your current thoughts about Artemis, the District 2 girl?”

Ugh, right. He has to go down the checklist of things to ask me about. And everyone wants to know about Artemis just because her sister was a halfway decent person. _That’s_ the sort of stuff that makes it onto the Capitol radar. But at least I’m no longer begging them to let my parentless tribute live a few minutes longer.

“Pretty much the same as they were before,” I answer. But are they? No, probably not. Yet I can’t tell anyone, even if I wanted to, that she came and visited me the night before she went to the arena. That she was so confident in her decision that she was okay marching straight for death and taking out as many innocent people as she could on the way. Yes, I have many thoughts on her, but they’re not things I could straighten out enough to put into words, and even if I could, I know that I shouldn’t.

“You and her sister had a special connection when you were in the arena,” he says. “She showed you great mercy, and it was such a wonderful interaction for us to watch.”

_Don’t flip out on Caligula. Do NOT flip out on Caligula._

I grit my teeth and don’t answer as I try to get control of myself. But my mind is torn in two directions: part of me wants to tear Caligula’s statements to bits, and the other is trying desperately to dissociate. It’s a struggle to keep myself present and, well, presentable.

“Yeah, um, that was . . . good,” I say. “I’m appreciative of it.”

And I realize now just how damned difficult it is to get through an interview right now. My brain churns through words and only processes half of them; my body is fatigued. It’s barely possible to keep up with the façade of being a well-mannered mentor, and I fear that I’m either going to pass out or snap at Caligula. Surely my answers, which had been somewhat decent at the beginning but have now dissolved into barely passable phrases, aren’t interesting the viewers at home anymore. I take in a breath and tell myself that I _need_ to get through this. It’s not a matter of making myself or James look good; it’s a matter of life or death.

Yet it doesn’t seem to help.

“You wouldn’t be here today without her,” he agrees. “How do you think that experience has affected Artemis?”

“Honestly, don’t know,” I lie because I don’t even know how to _begin_ talking about Artemis and what a strange girl she is even if I wanted to discuss it right now. I grasp the cane in my hands.

“Well, I guess if she’s the victor, we’ll get the chance to ask her,” Caligula says offhandedly.

“Or you could just ask her mentor,” I say. “He knows her better than I do.”

“That’s an idea! Alright, Elijah, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have for today,” he says. “Thank you so much for being here, and we look forward to more interviews in the near future!”

Once I am released, I stand up and walk off stage in the direction I came. I am received by the Training Center coordinator who leads me back inside where the cameras are not allowed to follow me. She says something to me, a happy chirp that doesn’t seem to have words at all. My head aches. I need to sleep. I need to go curl up in a corner somewhere and think of nothing at all. I don’t know if I’m ‘allowed’ to leave, but I meander away from the coordinator and head back to the elevators. I miss by several feet and have to feel along the wall until I find them, but I’m so exhausted that I can’t afford to be embarrassed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interviews always slow me down.


	25. Chapter 25

By the time I make it to my room, I’m so exhausted that I don’t think I can hold myself upright. Between finding out that I’m more fucked up than I thought I was and being emotionally strung out in an interview, I’m desperate for some respite. Yet I have no more time than to use the toilet before my monitoring device beeps through my headphones.

A warning.

Immediately I leave my bedroom and return to the main sitting area where I sit down on the couch and turn on the television. I’m just tuning in to find that the Careers are getting dangerously close to a muttation. We don’t know what muttation or if they’re going to find it, but Janice is eager to tell us that we might be in for a treat.

But this is the Careers, not my tribute. I ask my monitoring device to tell me the location of James relative to the Careers, and he’s not anywhere near them.

Then why the hell did I get a warning?

The Careers, completely oblivious to what’s going on around them, keep trudging across the open field of snow towards a rocky cliff. They notice an opening in the side, and one of them suggests that they explore it as their ‘home base’ since they had to leave the Cornucopia when it started snowing again this morning. Large bags of supplies weigh them down, and the narrator goes on to explain how exhausted and relieved they look when they hear this suggestion. So they quicken their pace and approach the cave.

But the moment that the shadow of the cliff falls upon them, the ground begins to rumble. The Careers exchange looks between themselves, but before there’s a chance to contemplate what’s happening, something large bolts out of the darkness. No, not just one thing. Many.

One, two, five, ten, dozens of large rhinoceroses covered in thick hair pour forth from the opening in the cliff face and fan out across the open snow-covered ground in a thundering rampage of hooves and bellows.

The Careers scatter. The boy and girl from District 4 and the boy from District 2 take off running away from the cave through the open field. Artemis shrugs off her bags and turns to the cliff face. She launches herself upward, grabbing onto rocks that jut out from the wall, and climbs quickly to put as much distance between herself and the beasts as she can. Just in time as a rhinoceros smashes through where she was standing moments before, mashing her abandoned bag into the ground. The District 1 pair, Lucky and Jewel, run along the base of the cliff, banking on the fact that the beasts seem to be moving across the open ground and aren’t keen on following the rock wall.

The beasts pay little heed to the Careers as they run. Those caught in the stampede try to duck and doge hooves, but the cameras must not be able to see into the throng of stomping hooves; we are not told much what happens within the stampede itself. All we know is that there have not yet been any cannons.

The beasts keep running. They trample everything in their path. When they get to strips of forests, they weave expertly between trees and smash through undergrowth. And as they run, they head straight for the other tributes on the map: half of them go off towards the general area of the District 3 male and District 10 male, and the other half head towards James and, more distantly, Maggie and Teddy.

This is why my device warned me that James was in trouble.

But before we’re told the fate of the others, we are brought back to the Careers. Artemis managed to make it to the top of the cliff (ten meters or so), and the District 1 tributes have gotten away unscathed. Two cannons fire, one for each of the District 4 tributes who lay mangled and ravaged in the snow (and for once I am glad I cannot see what happened), but the final member of the Career pack, Artemis’ district partner, has managed to grab onto one of the rhinoceroses and climb onto its back. Now he clings to its hairy hide and tries to keep from falling off and being trampled under the hooves of the beasts behind it.

“That is called a ‘woolly rhinoceros’,” comes the voice of Janice Lovely. “Not something we’d find in a zoo. It’s really fascinating, isn’t it, Caligula?”

“Absolutely. And it was such a shock to see it tear into the Career pack like that! Amazing!” he answers.

Right, the Careers they loved just hours ago suddenly mean nothing now. Throw away a few lives for the sake of entertainment. I focus on the narration to keep from listening to their voices and cling to the hope that James will be able to escape this monstrous pack of animals.

> While the Careers recover from the shock of being run over by long-extinct beasts, the rest of the tributes have no idea what is in store for them. By the way, the woolly rhinoceros, or _Coelodonta antiquitatis_ , lived during the Pleistocene epoch and was one member of what is referred to as the Pleistocene megafauna. These particular ones are about 4 meters long, 2 meters tall at the shoulder, and weigh between 2,500 to 3,000 kg. The two horns are made of keratin, which is the same stuff the fingernail is made out of, and the thick hair coat kept it warm during the cold winters.

Right, thanks, I want to say. Just tell me about my tribute. Yet I cling to the narrator’s words, waiting until he tells me something about James. Something to let me know that he’s okay. I have to suffer through more fun paleontological facts before he decides to give me something worthwhile:

> One half of the stampede turns slightly south and heads towards the nearest tribute, the District 5 male. The ground shakes beneath them, and James looks up with surprise. No, that’s concern. He’s grabbing his belongings. Now he’s starting to run the opposite way. The first glimpses of the stampede appear behind him. He keeps running. And he’s still running. Good heavens this kid can run. I—hang on, one second . . . I’ve just been informed I have to be more objective. The stampede is catching up with him. He makes a sharp left and climbs up a granite bolder, approximately 3 meters high. The stampede races by him, and he just barely makes it as they come through, the shoulders of the closest woolly rhinoceroses brushing against the bolder.

He made it. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and grasp onto my cane. Holy shit, he made it.

But as James gasps and pants on top of the bolder, the narration turns to Maggie and Teddy. My tribute might be safe, but I’m still emotionally invested in the District 5 girl, and the idea that she might meet the same fate as the District 4 tributes terrifies me.

> Maggie and Teddy are walking across a snowy field. The moment they hear rumbling, they pause and exchange looks. Maggie starts to run, and Teddy follows. Maggie is faster. The gap between them widens.

“Teddy! Hurry up!” Maggie screams.

> Teddy tries, but Maggie’s still too fast. Behind them the woolly rhinoceroses appear on the horizon. Maggie looks behind them and fear fills her eyes. She runs even faster now until she hits the tree line. She finds a large tree and grabs onto it.

“Teddy! Over here!” she yells to him.

> Maggie begins to climb. Teddy reaches the tree and climbs after her, but he’s physically exhausted and his hands keep slipping. Maggie sits higher in the tree, but she hangs onto her branch and leans down to grasp onto his wrist. Teddy manages to climb with her help, and the two of them only stop when they’re about three and a half meters off the ground. The rhinoceroses thunder by them, and the tree shakes as they jostle it, but both tributes hang on.

I can hear the pounding of hooves for myself. Even without the description of what they look like, I know that they can only be massive creatures. Powerful enough to stamp two healthy tributes to death. Once the sound of the stampede dissipates, I can hear Maggie and Teddy breathing harshly as they gasp for breath.

And James. . . . The narrator starts to tell me about what’s happening with the other half of the herd that was charging towards the District 3 and District 10 tributes, but I give my monitoring device verbal command to return to James, and it takes but a moment to switch over.

> James sits on top of the boulder panting for breath. I can’t say for certain because the bottom portion of the boulder is covered by snow, but it appears to be a glacially-deposited granodiorite that has—oh, hang on one second. . . . Right okay I’ve been told that’s unnecessary detail. James appears to have no wounds. He removes his hat and his gloves. He is still panting, and he’s squinting in the sun despite the sunglasses. He still has his bag.

I listen for a few more minutes before I flip to the other tributes to see what’s going on with them. Maggie and Teddy climb out of the tree, but it takes awhile until either of them feel confident enough to put their feet on the ground again. The narrator describes to me that the beasts have carved through the snow, leaving a prominent trail behind them, and the two tributes look around and consider going back the direction the rhinoceroses had come from, but they both think better of it in case the muttations return. Instead they decide to put as much distance between themselves and the tracks as possible.

Both District 3 and District 10 escape unscathed, too. Nothing of great interest to me there.

The Careers, on the other hand, are scattered. I don’t know if it was intentional or just random chance that the tributes who happened to trigger the muttations were the beloved Careers, but now two of them are dead and the other four are scattered. The District 1 pair remain together, but Artemis is still on top of the cliff she climbed, and her district partner managed to grab onto a low-hanging branch when he passed beneath a tree and escaped from the stampede.

I manage to stay awake for the rest of the daylight hours to ensure that James does okay, but during that time, I forget all that Harmony told me about taking care of myself. Or, more realistically, I willingly acknowledge it and then push it out of my mind because I can’t handle it. There’s no way in hell I can manage to take care of myself _and_ keep an eye on James.

And yet, to deny it entirely seems to be a personal affront to Harmony, so I at least drag myself over to the table around dinner time and allow the avoxes to serve me a plate of lamb, potatoes, and vegetables which I force myself to eat. When I finish, I retreat to my room, strip off my clothes, and crawl into bed.

But the thoughts don’t leave me. I lay in bed and curl on my side, but no matter how much I try to steady my breathing and clear my mind, a rush of thoughts surge through my brain. A stampede of its own.

I want to tell Marie, I realize. I want to tell her about what Harmony said today.

And yet I know that I can’t. That gets filed under ‘things I can never tell my wife or she’ll forever be worried about everything’ and who could blame her? If she called me up and told me that her doctor says she’s depressed, I’d be beside myself knowing that there is absolutely nothing I can do about it because I’m stuck here in this damned city a thousand miles away from her.

As much as I want to call her up, I keep the phone by the bedside table where I set it down and try to convince myself to go to sleep. Depression is common, I remind myself. I’m sure I’m not the only victor dealing with it, and once the Hunger Games is over, I’ll be able to address it properly. Yet merely acknowledging this isn’t enough. . . . If depression is common as Harmony says and I should feel some relief in knowing that I am not alone, why the hell do I have this aching loneliness within me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said, "I don't know what I should do to the tributes" and my spouse said, "Make them get trampled by woolly rhinoceroses." And then I was like, "You're making that up."
> 
> Turns out it was a real thing.


	26. Chapter 26

I’m awake at four-thirty AM. After checking on James, I try to fall back to sleep, but it quickly becomes clear that it’s not happening. So much for trying to get more than a couple of hours of sporadic rest. I crawl out of bed feeling just a hair or two better than trash and tell myself that I’ll feel great after a shower. It doesn’t work, but at least I’m not feeling _quite_ as shitty when all is said and done.

By mid-morning, I find myself drifting off to sleep, so I curl up on the couch for a nap. Just a small nap, I tell myself. Nothing too crazy.

When I wake up a few hours later and check in with my tribute, I have to turn on the television to confirm that what is being fed to me via the narration is true: James and Maggie have formed an alliance with each other. Maggie and Teddy have gotten separated, and somehow James stumbled across Maggie during the day.

Damnit, this is why I don’t nap.

In all honesty, I _should_ be happy that they’re together. They got along well in the Training Center, and I have no reason to suspect that they’ll be eager to turn on each other. But it’s with a sinking sensation in my gut that I realize that now there’s something I must do as mentor to uphold my part of my promise to James to do whatever I could to get him out alive. I reach over and grab my phone.

As I listen to the phone ring, I pray that maybe, just maybe, Solar was hit by a car and killed this morning and I don’t have to deal with her, but I know that I won’t have that luck.

 _“Hey, Elijah,”_ she says as soon as she picks up. _“Nice to hear from you.”_

“Can you come back to the Training Center so we can discuss our tributes’ alliance,” I say knowing that she’ll more than likely shove all the work on me and tell me that I’m on my own. I brace myself for her excuses and complete lack of understanding, but to my surprise, that’s not what she says at all.

In fact, it’s worse.

 _“Actually, I can’t. But I’m going to text you an address, so why don’t you come over here and meet some of my friends,”_ she says casually. I know that she’s relishing this; there’s no way I can decline her ‘offer’ when my tribute’s life is on the line, so she has me exactly where she wants me, and she’s going to enjoy this situation so very much. _“They’re very eager to meet you, Elijah.”_

“Solar. . . . Please?” I try. “You’re a mentor. This is where you’re supposed to be mentoring.”

She laughs lightly. _“Oh, you’re funny,”_ she comments. _“If you want to do what’s best for your tribute—and I know you do, don’t you?—I recommend that you come here. There’s no need to freak out about it; everyone here is really nice.”_

James and Maggie’s lives are at stake here. They could _die_ and Solar is treating this all like a game. I shouldn’t be surprised, but pain stabs me in the gut and I clear my throat to try to hold back the tears that prickle my eyelids. To what depths will she go just to show us how much of a wretched, soulless being she is?

“Alright,” I give in. I rub my cheek and tell myself to hold it all together. I won’t let Solar see how much she’s upset me. “Give me the address. I’ll be there in a bit.”

 _“That’s a good mentor,”_ she laughs. _“I’ll see you soon.”_

As soon as the phone disconnects, I throw it down on the couch and bury my face in my hands. Of all the shit that’s going on right now, this might just be the thing that sends me over. All I want to do now is to go back to sleep and wake up to find out that I hallucinated the entire phone call. Because I’d rather go completely insane than deal with Solar, especially in the company of her ‘friends.’

The friends who wanted me dead.

I drop my hands away from my face and feel around the couch until my fingers wrap around the smooth surface of the phone. It doesn’t matter what I want; none of this is about me. I need to do this for James; I could never live with myself if I denied him the chance to live because I was too afraid of my old mentor. So I stand up and head to my room to freshen up.

I appreciate the irony that Harmony told me to get some sunlight, and here I am in this cab where the sun warms the windows. I don’t think that this is what he quite had in mind. My palm presses against the glass and I’m sure the cab driver is silently cursing to himself that I’m smudging the window, but I don’t care. I allow my skin to absorb the warmth, little though it is, and tell myself that whatever happens, I’ll get through it.

When the cab comes to a stop, I take a moment to breathe and adjust my sunglasses and make sure that I appear somewhat confident and not nearly as terrified as I feel. Then I thank the cab driver, exit the car, and head up the steps to the apartment complex.

Although I can see nothing, I managed to get a verbal description of this place on my phone before I left. There is no doubt in my mind now that the people Solar socializes with are extremely rich and powerful; it might be an apartment complex, but it’s one of the most expensive in the city and many big names live here. Big Hunger Games names, too. I’m going to have to tread extra carefully and not say anything stupid.

I take the elevator to the appropriate floor with the help of the avox who mans the elevator. When I step off into the corridor, I don’t give myself a chance to think. I just move. My hands fumble for the doorbell on the side of the door, but finally I find it and press it.

As I wait for someone to answer, I strain to hear anything that will give me a clue of what’s going on. Muffled voices come from the other side of the door, but I can’t make out any words, nor can I even know how many people are there. What am I getting myself into? I try to still my pounding heart, but it’s a futile endeavor.

The door opens, but when I say hello, no one answers. I can only guess that it’s an avox, and I feel around with my cane first before I step inside. The door closes behind me, and I follow the sounds of footsteps. As we walk, it becomes more difficult to hear the footfalls, yet voices and laughter grow louder and louder. My cane picks up when the floor switches from smooth stone to either rug or carpeting, and I pause.

Then I hear Solar’s voice: “Elijah! So glad you could make it!”

Other people start talking then, some greeting me, others complementing Solar on something; it’s hard to tell because they’re all speaking at once and my own brain is screaming that this is wrong and I need to get out of here right this moment.

She’s at my side before I know it, telling me that she’s so happy to see me. Her fingers grasp my arm, and fortunately I’m too shocked to pull away as I normally do when she touches me. She leads me further into the room and instructs me to sit down. I’m acutely aware that everyone is watching me as my hands feel for the chair and briefly run across the upholstery before I lower myself into the seat. It’s not a chair, I realize; it’s a couch, and although I have one of the ends, there’s someone sitting right next to me.

“Welcome to my home, Elijah,” comes the voice of a man. It’s smooth, practiced, dangerous. I know without a doubt that he’s judging me right now, and I wonder if he was one of the ones who contributed to the vial of cyanide Solar sent me in the arena. “My name is Archduke Gibblesburg and I am a very big supporter of you.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, doing my best to not allow my words betray my fear.

Then everyone goes around the room introducing themselves. I struggle to keep track of voices and names. Besides the archduke, there is his wife, Duchess Gibblesburg, who extends a warm welcome to her house. There are other names, too: Pompeius, a famous architect who designed many of the buildings for the wealthy; Hypatia, a professor of mathematics at the university and a major financial supporter of the Hunger Games; Rameses and Iset, children of a Gamemaker and students of Hypatia; and oddly enough, Dictyoclostus, who I met the other day at the bloodbath party. There are more, but their names get lost in the chaos.

When they’ve all been introduced, they give me little greetings and I try to remember who is who. However, I didn’t come here to meet all these people (though of course I have no choice but to comply); I need to speak with Solar about our tributes.

“Solar, can I have a minute?” I ask once the conversation starts to settle down a bit.

“Of course,” she says from her seat on another piece of furniture not too far from me. She says to the others, “If you would please excuse us.”

That seemed too easy, I think to myself as I stand up and follow her out of the room. She walks weirdly slowly, and I realize that she’s making sure that I’m not being left behind.

She wants to make a good impression for the others. _These_ are the people she cares about. Not her tributes, not her fellow victors. These rich and influential Capitolites. Interesting, I note; this will be good to keep in mind. Yet if I had any intention of actually using it against her and keeping her in her place, it doesn’t matter because that would require effort I can’t afford to put into the situation.

We step outside onto a balcony. Down far below, I hear the noises of the city, but it’s muted by the distances and the wind.

“What do you think of my friends?” she asks, leaning in close to me as we stand against the railing.

I force myself to stand still. For all I know, the others have a direct view of us, and I don’t want them to see me pulling away from this awful woman who they seem to tolerate or even like.

“It’s a bit early to say,” I answer honestly. “Hard to go off first impressions when you can’t see anyone.”

She laughs lightly. “You’ll like them well enough,” she says. “Now, I think you wanted to talk about the tributes.”

Now I’m starting to wonder if this balcony is bugged. It has to be if she’s so willing to launch into discussion about things that she’d normally ignore entirely. But that’s okay; we’re talking about the Hunger Games, and I’ll just have to watch how much information I give, which is fine because I wouldn’t want to divulge too much to Solar anyhow.

“Our tributes are in an alliance now,” I start carefully.

“Which means we have to work together, I know,” she says. “That bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“Does it matter?” I ask. “I just want to do what’s best for James.”

“Still thinking your tribute has a chance, hmm?” she says with amusement. “I would tell you that you might as well go back to the Training Center because neither of them really have a shot but, well, I think my friends would be disappointed. I know that _I_ would be, if you left.”

“That’s nice,” I say with enough irritation to show that it’s not nice at all. “But what are we going to do about the tributes? James has some sponsorship money, and since they’re in an alliance now, it could help Maggie’s temperature if we—”

Her laughter cuts me off.

“I have plenty of money for Maggie,” she says. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”

“She lost her gloves and her hat in the stampede, and you have enough money to do something about it, but you don’t?” I ask sharply.

I feel the warmth of her fingers on my cheek. “Sometimes you have to let tributes toughen up a bit before you give them what they need,” she says. “I would have thought that you would have understood that by now.”

I pull away from her, the anger too much right now to have to deal with her unwanted touch at the same time.

“Send a gift to Maggie,” I say sharply. “Otherwise her body temperature is going to drop more and she will die.”

“Let me handle my own tribute,” she says.

“You’ve done a terrible job so far. Why should I—”

But before I can get the rest of my sentence out, her lips are on mine and she’s kissing me. She presses her body against me, and the concrete balcony railing grinds into my back. I want to move away from her, but she has me pinned, and I can’t escape without making a scene. She holds me there for several long seconds before she pulls her lips away ever-so-slightly. Her breath warms my cheek.

“Don’t you _ever_ say anything like that when I am in the company of my friends,” she whispers dangerously.

“You put a lot of stock into what your friends think of you,” I say. The taste of her saliva, tinged with the faintest hints of alcohol, lingers on my lips.

“And you really should, too. This is your warning,” she says, and then her lips are back on mine.

I try to pretend that I’m not here—that I’m anywhere else on this damned planet—but Solar makes it impossible. When she finally releases me and steps back, I have to grasp onto the railing behind me to keep from collapsing.

She speaks again and there’s neither humor nor amusement in her voice: “Remember, Elijah, I am paying off my debts. I do what I have to do to survive, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interfere.”

Then why did you bring me out here, I want to ask. But I know that my questions will fall on deaf ears, and she’ll just give me a cryptic answer, if any answer at all. She’s already revealed to me more than she has ever; although she’s told me about her debts before, I am finally witnessing for myself the connection between the things she owes and the people to whom she’s indebted. It has been a part of Solar I’ve known about, but being dragged into it like this is something else entirely.

How the hell am I supposed to handle this alliance if she won’t even give her tribute the time of day and I’m not allowed to critique her?

“Your ‘friends’ are okay with your mentoring tactics?” I ask.

“They know that Maggie doesn’t have a chance; that’s why they support tributes that are worth their time,” she says.

“And who is worth their time?” I ask.

“Well, you were,” she answers.

“That’s not helping me now,” I say sharply, fear already eating into me because I know that there’s something lingering beneath the surface of her answer. “What tributes are they putting money on?”

“Does it matter? Neither of ours,” she says.

“Alright, Solar, I think I’m missing something here,” I say. “Our tributes are in an alliance together, and that means that we have to work together to help them. If you’re not interested in that, then why did you want me to come here? You could have told me on the phone to stay in the Training Center.”

“I could have,” she replies. “But I think you might find it beneficial to spend some time here, don’t you?”

“No, I think I’m ready to leave,” I answer.

She clicks her tongue at me. “I don’t think they’re ready to let you go quite yet,” she says quietly. But there’s a note of amusement in her voice, and I know that I won’t like whatever is in store for me. I can’t leave without these people’s permission because my tribute will be dead before I even have a chance to get back to the Training Center, and Solar is doing her best to make sure that I’m as uncomfortable as possible.

And then it occurs to me: what if these were the same people who supposedly forced Solar to have sex with me?

I’m not sure I have the strength to step back into the apartment now, not even when Solar says that it’s time that we get back to the others. We don’t have a plan for our tributes, Solar has once again invaded my personal space, and I’m with a bunch of people who enjoy torturing others for fun. In my confusion, I barely realize that Solar has me by the elbow until she’s half-pulling me across the threshold and back into the apartment.

And then I have to find strength because I need to keep up appearances. There’s no choice in that.


	27. Chapter 27

The archduke and duchess invite us to stay for supper. Solar answers for the both of us and says that it would be our pleasure, though I get the feeling that she knows both of these people well enough and the only reason they’re bothering with the formality of asking at all is because I am here. Most people have already gone home or to another party, leaving the Capitolite couple, the siblings Rameses and Iset, Solar, and myself.

Once we sit down at the table, the silent avoxes move back and forth, bringing more and more dishes forward. The others talk easily between each other, and I do my best to keep myself from not collapsing into a heap of exhaustion and fear and whatever else I’m feeling right now. It’s only when I hear the clink of silverware that I realize I have absolutely no idea how I’ll end up serving myself. No one is willingly telling me what is in each plate, and there’s _so much_ happening that there must be over two dozen individual dishes. Maybe I’m wrong, I don’t know, but it’s just chaos.

“Elijah. Green beans,” Solar’s voice comes from my right, barely more than a whisper. I automatically hold out my hands without realizing what I’m doing, and I feel the warmth of a heavy dish in my hands. It’s only as I’m spooning green beans onto my plate that I realize that Solar actually told me what she was giving me. And when she hands me the next dish, she tells me what’s it is as well. Just a little breath of words, never enough to give a full description but at least enough to point me in the right direction.

Why? She has literally never done this for me before. Not once since I’ve known her has she gone out of her way to genuinely help me; if she does anything vaguely nice for me, there’s always a hint of malice behind it. And yet it’s not there now.

_Her friends. She’s either really trying to make a good impression for them. . . . Or she’s scared shitless and doesn’t want me to mess things up._

I’m going to go out on a limb and say it’s the latter because if she were worried about impressions, she wouldn’t bother keeping her voice low and her words subtle.

A cold tingle of fear crawls up my spine and I have to keep myself from shivering.

Once the dishes have been sorted out and the conversation takes off, I disappear into my meal. At first no one cares. I catch bits of their conversations as I concentrate fully on making sure I don’t drop food on myself: local gossip, mostly, with bits of Hunger Games and politics and the like thrown in. Solar participates easily in the conversation, the words rolling out of her mouth without the sadism she normally reserves for the rest of us. She almost sounds like a normal human being.

“So, Elijah, your tribute and Solar’s tribute are in an alliance now,” says the archduke.

“Yessir,” I answer.

He laughs. “You can drop the formalities,” he says. “A friend of Solar’s is a friend of ours.”

There is so much wrong with that sentence, but I just nod and say, “Yeah, okay.”

“I’m sorry to hear that your tribute has no family,” says his wife, the duchess. “It’s going to be hard to get sponsors for a tribute who has no one to return to at home.”

“Why?” I dare to ask.

“Oh, he’s really not worth it at this point,” she answers without the slightest bit of concern. “If he dies, no one will miss him at home.”

I open my mouth to speak but shut it quickly when I remember that I can’t just say whatever comes to mind first. My fingers tighten on my fork and I can’t bring myself to continue eating, or even to pretend to do that.

How do I defend my tribute? How can I _possibly_ come up with something tactful to say that will reinstate my tribute’s right to live while not offending the disgusting beasts that occupy this table with me?

“I’m sure you’ll have better luck next year,” the archduke assures me.

“Victory should really go to the person who has family and friends to appreciate it,” comes Rameses’ voice from across the table somewhere. Strange. . . . Now that I hear him without all of the background chatter, I realize that he sounds familiar, but I can’t really point out where I’ve heard it before. Maybe everybody is starting to sound the same. The same cruel words, the same cruel voices.

And what the hell do I say to this anyhow?

“He’s a good kid,” I try.

“Being a good kid isn’t going to cut it when there are good kids in the arena who also have family,” says the duchess. “But that little Maggie sure is something special. She’s pretty tough, and she’s going to be gorgeous in another couple of years.”

“Maybe if she wins, they could do a few alterations to speed up the process. . . .” the archduke says.

“Honey, she’s not even legal yet,” his wife replies. “Be patient.”

I think I might throw up. I swallow back the rising bile and force myself to pick at my meal. I’ve eaten more than what my stomach can hold; not because I have gorged myself but because I’ve lost my appetite entirely. Now I just pretend that I’m eating.

Rameses laughs. “Victory will go to the Careers,” he says. “There are four of them left, and who is their competition? A few kids all scattered out in the snow where they’re holed up to keep from freezing to death.”

“Only for awhile,” his sister reminds him. “Eventually they’ll get flushed out of their holes, and then we’ll see what happens.”

Solar remains oddly quiet. Not a single word from her, not a single noise of approval or disproval. She, like me, has no business in this conversation. They may pretend that they want us involved, but it’s only for show; the real matter doesn’t involve the likes of us lowly victors. The four of them go on like this, exchanging things about the various tributes with no regard to the fact that these kids are living human beings.

Finally dinner comes to a conclusion. I wonder if it’s acceptable for me to leave, but then they say that we’re going to retreat to the evening room to have after-dinner cocktails. No invitation here; just an instruction. So I stand up when the others do, and the group of us heads off to another room where we sit on soft couches and the avoxes serves us drinks. I take what they give me but don’t drink it.

“Iset, I hear you have an appointment at the beauty center scheduled for a couple of days,” says the duchess. “Are you going by yourself?”

And then they all go off on a conversation about whatever spa day and body modifications they have lined up. This time Solar makes herself comfortable in the conversation, deftly jumping in and navigating with ease. I remain on the fringes, completely baffled by whatever the hell is going on in their worlds. Just this smooth transition from child death to manicures.

“Oh, speaking of, Solar, I just _must_ show you this dress I got the other day,” the duchess says. “I’ve already shown Iset, but you just _must_ come and see it.”

“I’d love to,” Solar says. And it sounds like she’s telling the truth. If I didn’t know her better, I’d believe it. The two of them stand up and leave the room as the duchess goes on about what a great opportunity it was and all the ways she plans on accessorizing it.

The archduke, Rameses, and Iset then dive into a conversation about the Hunger Games, and I remain where I am and listen to them discuss how long they expect them to go on. I remind myself that while all three of them are very well versed in the Hunger Games, Rameses and Iset are children of a gamemaker and might have more insight to what might happen; listening to their conversation, disgusting though it is, may benefit me. They critique each of the tributes’ survival skills and whatever else.

After a bit, the archduke asks us if we’d like a smoke, and Iset and I decline. Rameses takes him up on it, and the two of them head out to the porch. I wonder if I can finally leave now, but with neither of the people who actually own the apartment here, I don’t want to just vanish without warning.

This leaves me with Iset, who sits on the opposite end of the couch from me. She keeps a respectable distance from me, but the movement of the cushions as she adjusts her weight is a reminder that I don’t want to be sharing any furniture with her regardless. I don’t want to be here at all.

“What do you think?” she asks me.

“Pardon?”

“About today,” she says. “Solar says that you haven’t much experience socializing.”

Well, that’s a true fact and I can’t argue. I clasp the drink in my hand for a second before leaning over to the coffee table. My free hand touches the surface to make sure that I know what I’m aiming for, and then I set the glass down on a coaster.

“The archduke and duchess seem nice,” I say after I sit back in my seat. “Nice place they have.”

She laughs. “No, no. Archduke and duchess are not titles. Those are their names,” she says.

“They’re . . . named Archduke and Duchess?” I hesitate.

“Yes,” she says. “Very nice, isn’t it? It just suits them so well.”

“I haven’t been around much royalty, so I’ll have to take your word on it,” I say.

“Well, names aside, it has been a pleasure to finally meet you. Solar has spoken highly of you,” she tells me.

Okay that’s either a lie or . . . another lie but by Solar. Solar doesn’t say nice things about me, ever.

“Oh, that’s . . . nice,” I say.

“My brother says he had the chance to meet you the other day,” Iset says. “He was eager to meet you again, too.”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember,” I reply. Must’ve been at the bloodbath party since that was the last time I had interaction with anyone outside the Training Center besides a cab driver and Harmony.

“It must be hard not having vision,” she comments. Her bracelets jingle as she moves her arm, and then comes the slightest noises. Probably drinking her cocktail.

I can’t tell if she actually means it, or if it’s some sort of dig into the fact that my vision could be restored if the Capitol—if people like her—would allow it.

When I don’t respond, she sighs and says, “I’m sorry. It must not be something you’re comfortable talking about.”

“I honestly just don’t know what to say to that,” I tell her. Firstly because I don’t want to have this conversation with her and secondly because it _is_ hard and yet no one will do anything to rectify the issue. I grit my teeth but keep my expression neutral. These people cannot know how much I hate them.

“You go to parties, but you can see no one,” she says more to herself than to me. “You meet people, but you never see their faces. . . .”

“Yep, that’s a pretty accurate picture of the situation,” I agree carefully.

She’s quiet for a moment, and then the couch cushions sink ever-so-slightly as she comes closer to me. My heart rate increases, yet I remain where I am.

“What you need is a companion,” she says to me. “Somebody to be with you. Who could tell you about all the things you’re missing.”

She takes my hand in hers. Her long, cool fingers wrap around mine. My own fingers itch to pull away from the sudden and unwanted touch, but I keep them steady and don’t let them tremble lest they betray my fear and repulsion. She moves her other hand to join, and she clasps my hand between both of hers.

“What do you think, Elijah?” she asks, lowering her voice. She moves closer to me, and I can smell cinnamon and alcohol on her breath.

“I-I don’t think I understand?” I reply, using my confusion to buy me another couple seconds to think about how to respond to her ‘offer’ that I know that I ultimately will not be able to turn down if she insists on being my so-called companion.

Her fingers massage my palm.

“We’ll go to parties together,” she says. “I’ll help you so that you don’t make any more mistakes.”

Mistakes? Oh shit. What did I do?

Realizing that I’ve been sinking deeper and deeper into the couch, I sit up as best as I can with my hand still in hers so that I don’t appear nearly as terrified as I feel.

“See, my brother told me that you really have a problem holding your alcohol,” she says. “And that sometimes you say things that you really shouldn’t. I could help you so that you don’t find yourself in that position.”

Her brother said that—Oh damn. Wait. Something begins to click into place. There were very few people I actually interacted with during the party besides a few quick (but not impolite) greetings. The only people I was rude with were Peggy, who obviously isn’t her brother, and. . . . Her brother was the one with Lady. The one who later forced her to come over to his place. Oh no. Shit. This is an offer I _can’t_ turn down, I know it, and yet I want so much to be able to slip out of this precarious situation.

“I don’t go to parties very often,” I try.

“But you’ll be going to more,” she whispers. “In order to get sponsorships for your tribute.”

And now she has me there. Is that how it goes with us victors? They can make us do anything by dangling our tributes in front of us?

“What do you get out of this companionship?” I ask. “It seems a little one-sided here.”

“Does it matter?”

No, it doesn’t.

“I just like to know about whatever agreements I’m getting into in advance,” I say.

“Maybe I’d just like to spend time with one of the most popular people in Panem,” she answers.

“To further your status,” I say.

She laughs. “I guess I’m pretty transparent, aren’t I?” she asks.

She still has my hand in hers, still kneading it with her fingers. I’m growing used to the way her fingers press into my skin, and when I realize that, repulsion makes me want to pull away from her. But of course I can’t. Nothing I do is of my own will right now because if I act out of instinct or desire or anything of that nature, I’m going to get James killed.

Or worse: Marie.

_Marie._

I can’t go to this party with this woman. Not if she wants from me what her brother wanted from Lady. How the hell can I do that to Marie?

“I’m married,” I find myself saying. Married and soon to be a father, and I can’t just go traipsing around the Capitol with other women even if I wanted to.

“Oh, Elijah, don’t worry,” Iset says sympathetically. “We’re just going as friends.”

“Just friends,” I echo. Something about this setup sounds too good to be true. Sure, I have no desire to go to parties, but to go to a party with someone who is willing to help me get sponsorships with my tribute, and she isn’t requiring anything beyond a platonic relationship?

“Say yes,” she says.

“Alright,” I answer. “Sure.”

She smiles at me when she says, “Great! Tomorrow night is a big party. I’ll text you my address, and you can come pick me up at 7:00 PM, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” I say.

This seems to satisfy her, and she drops the topic of the party and instead begins telling me a story about her friend who was going on a date with someone and he took her to go miniature golfing which was just a complete embarrassment so she ended up never seeing him again and whatever else that I start tuning out. I can only focus on her hands around mine, still occasionally squeezing it as though she suddenly remembered that she held it, only to forget again a few moments later.

After a half hour of chattering, with me occasionally saying something to show that I’m listening, she says, “You seem pretty tired. Maybe you should go get some sleep.”

“That’s a good idea,” I agree, thankful that she has given me an out from this terrible evening. She reluctantly releases my hand, and I grab my cane and stand up. She accompanies me to the door and offers to go down to wait for a cab, but I tell her that I’ll be fine on my own.

Once I’m free from her, I take the elevator to the lobby and walk as calmly as I can manage outside. The evening air washes over me, but my brain buzzes too loudly to really pay attention. I shouldn’t have called up Solar. I shouldn’t have told her that I’d meet her here. I should have put my foot down and insist that she came to the Training Center. But I didn’t. All that is hindsight, and I can only fumble my way through one shitty social situation after another now with the hopes that I’m not going to make a wrong step and cause everything to crash down around me.

What the hell am I doing?


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay a couple of notes here:  
> \- I am not a therapist. Please take this all with a grain of salt for that reason. Also, Harmony literally cannot advise him on what we would consider to be 'appropriate' ways to handle things because Elijah is a victor and that sort of stuff is off limits. So I tried to make it as appropriate as I could given the situation.  
> \- Some sensitive topics are discussed in this topic, including what is written in the tags, but not discussed in graphic detail.

I have another appointment with Harmony today, and I’m not sure how I’m going to face him and admit that I did pretty much nothing that he asked me to. I’ve had a few meals, sure, but that’s pretty much it. Sleep has been sporadic, if at all, and I haven’t even bothered to find the exercise room. Instead I’m glued to the television and my headphones listening to James and Maggie try to survive in a blizzard that started in the early hours of the morning while trying to pretend that I am not going to have to go beg for sponsors—or worse.

It’s difficult to pry myself away from the couch. Part of me wonders if it really would be bad to skip out on my meeting with Harmony since I haven’t been following his instructions anyhow. What’s the point in therapy if I’m not going to do anything about it once I leave the session, right? Yet I suppose there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to disappoint him after he’s spent so much time and energy on me over the past couple years, and so I finally push myself off the couch, grab my cane, and head for the elevator.

Maybe there’s even a part of me that’s willing to get better. I know that I _want_ to, but that’s entirely different than being able to be _willing_ to. Want requires no effort, just a desire, whereas being willing to get better means that I need to commit to the treatment plan he gives me.

And I don’t know if I can do that. Not with everything that’s going on.

I slouch down in the seat of the cab and try to give myself a pep talk to convince myself that I can make time in my schedule for whatever Harmony instructs me to do. I’m telling myself a lie, but I feel a bit better pretending that I might potentially get better soon.

I trudge up the walkway to the porch. Harmony opens the door when I knock, and he once more brings me into his sitting room. I take my usual seat and he takes his.

“How’s it going, Elijah?” he asks.

I rest my chin in my hand with my elbow on the armrest of the couch and think about how to approach his question. A simple question, really, but with no simple answer. I go through a list of things I could tell him, but every item gets chucked out the window. Too closely related to the Hunger Games, too personal, too stupid. How do I even begin to tell him how it’s ‘going’ when it’s pretty much one miserable experience after another.

After a moment, I realize that Harmony’s saying something. “Hmm?” I ask.

“I said that you’ve been quiet for several minutes, and I’m wondering what’s on your mind,” he says.

Several minutes? But we only just sat down. What the hell?

I straighten up and drop my hand away from my face so that my arm dangles over the edge of the armrest.

“I didn’t do anything you told me to do,” I say. “I wanted to, but I didn’t. It’s just hard with the Hunger Games and—and I really don’t mean to give you an excuse, but holy shit I don’t know what I’m doing. I just feel like everything’s just _happening_ and I have no ability to do anything but watch it all unfold.”

“Alright, Elijah, let’s back up a little bit,” he says gently. “Tell me about the last couple of days.”

I take a breath and try to remember the last couple days. Some details stick out in the haze of memories, and it takes time to sort out the rest. Why the hell is it so hard to recall things? And why are the things I can recall the parts of my life that are the worst?

“I don’t remember the last time I was happy,” I say. Only after the words come out do I realize that I didn’t address Harmony’s question at all. Still, I go on, “I mean, there have been times I’ve smiled or laughed, but to be truly happy . . . I—I can’t remember.”

“That’s not uncommon with depression,” he says. “People who are depressed might have times when they’re enjoying themselves, but overall there’s this low mood that it’s hard to get out of.”

“So it _is_ depression then?” I ask. 

“I ran the tests I needed to. I checked you thyroid, vitamin levels, organ functioning, blood cells, electrolytes—all of them were within a normal range,” he says to me. “Since you have no history of recent head trauma or strokes or other issues like that, I think it’s safe to say that this is depression.”

Of course it is. The blood tests were only a formality.

Great time to have depression right in the middle of the Hunger Games when I’m trying to keep another person alive. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“How the hell am I supposed to do anything about it if I can’t convince myself to, well, do anything about it?” I ask, slumping down into the couch and leaning my head back against the rest to ‘stare’ up at the ceiling.

“Let’s start by talking about it,” he says to me. “You have a lot on your plate right now, so it would help to get things out in the open and sorted out.”

I shake my head. “I can’t even tell you half the things. . . .” I mutter.

Harmony’s quiet for a moment. Then he stands up and walks somewhere else in the room. A cupboard or drawer squeaks open, and he rifles through papers and small items. After a minute, there’s another squeak to indicate that the cupboard or drawer closed, and Harmony returns to his seat.

“Do you know what a scrambler is?” he asks.

“Yes,” I answer. We victors are very familiar with them. It’s one of the few ways to ‘hide’ our conversations from the government since they bug our houses. Scramblers identify bugs and ‘scramble’ the signal fed to them to cover up any conversation. They are, of course, highly illegal and anyone found with one could end up in massive trouble. It’s overlooked to some degree with victors, but for a regular citizen to have one. . . .

“Hold out your hand, Elijah,” Harmony instructs. I do what he asks, and he places a small, rectangular device in my hand. My fingers crawl across the surface, not pressing hard enough to activate any of the buttons but getting a feel for the layout of the device. Definitely a scrambler. Definitely something Harmony should not have. He continues, “Press the large button in the center. That will tell us if there are any bugs in here.”

My thumb finds the large button and I do as instructed. We hold our breaths and wait for several seconds, but there comes no sound. No bugs. This room is clean. And yet it does little to make me more comfortable.

“The button to the right of that will scramble any bugs that are present,” he says. “There are none, but go ahead and push it.”

Again, I do as he tells me, and then I start to hand it back to him.

But he says, “No, go ahead and hold onto it for our session.”

I turn the device over in my hand and wonder briefly where Harmony managed to pick something like this up. Certainly it’s not something that all therapists have for their clients. Afraid that I might inadvertently press buttons, I pat around near the armrest until my fingers find the end table, and then I set the device down on the smooth glass tabletop.

“I will also not be taking notes,” he says. “I’ll have to write something down about today’s session, but I assure you that it will be vague and won’t reflect anything sensitive you might tell me.”

Why? Why is Harmony suddenly so insistent in giving me utmost privacy? Why wasn’t this something he set up when I first started seeing him?

But I only nod to show that I understand, and then I try once more to formulate a sentence that’s coherent and roughly on topic.

“If I sleep, James may die,” I say. “I know that it’s not a direct correlation, like by falling asleep he’s magically going to die, but I won’t be watching him, and I won’t be able to step in and, I don’t know, send him a sponsorship gift or whatever he needs at the right moment. I don’t want to take sleeping medication because I’m afraid that if I get a notification on my monitoring device that he’s in trouble, I won’t be able to wake up. Yet because I can’t sleep, I’m always so exhausted and I’m afraid that _that_ will end up screwing him over, but it’s not enough to convince me that I should get any more rest then what I absolutely need to survive.”

“It must be hard being tied so closely to your tribute,” Harmony acknowledges. “You’re always on edge waiting for something bad to happen, and you don’t allow yourself to take care of yourself because you’re afraid that you won’t be there to witness whatever bad thing happens.”

“Yes, I—” but I stop short. Something about what Harmony says doesn’t sit right with me, and my stomach clenches. As I try to remember what I was going to say before I stopped, it occurs to me that this is the first time I have ever heard anyone in the Capitol understand how damned difficult it is to mentor. Most people treat it like it’s an honor or privilege, and some treat it like it’s a sporting event or our tributes are just disposable items that we have no emotional attachment to. Hell, even we victors don’t talk about it; we just _know_ what it’s like, and understanding that we all go through the same thing is ‘good enough’ that it doesn’t need to be put into words. But to hear this said out loud. . . .

I clear my throat.

“It’s okay, Elijah,” he assures me. “It’s okay to feel these things. You’ve been through a lot, and now you’re being expected to go through it over again knowing that it’s not your life on the line but someone else’s.”

“But it’s not okay,” I say. “I have to be functional for James and do whatever I can to make sure he doesn’t die. You know that they’re saying that he’s not worth saving because he’s a foster kid and doesn’t have family?” I laugh humorlessly. “Now I have to go attend parties I don’t want to go to with a woman I have no desire to be around just so that I can get him some sponsorships and show people that he shouldn’t be written off because ‘no one will miss him when he dies.’”

“There’s a difference between feelings and actions,” Harmony says. “You’re allowed to feel whatever you want. You’re allowed to have emotions and your own thoughts. You might have to put on a brave face and do things you don’t want to do, but that doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to be upset that you’re in this situation. Anyone would be, if they had gone through what you did.”

“But they didn’t,” I say.

“No, they didn’t,” he agrees. “They make you think that you have no choice—and to a certain extent that’s correct for someone in your position—but you have the freedom to have your own thoughts and emotions. It’s okay to be upset at this situation. It’s not inappropriate to be sad or angry or anything like that. It doesn’t mean that you’re weak or that you’re going to ruin your tribute’s chances.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mumble. Once it’s out of my mouth, I realize how rude it was, but if Harmony is offended, he doesn’t give any indication.

“It is easy for me to say because I have never been in your position, nor will I ever be,” he says. “I will never have to worry that any of my family or friends will be sent to the Hunger Games. But just because it’s easy for me to tell you these things doesn’t mean that it’s not true. You need a healthy way to express your emotions that you can’t show in public so that you aren’t bottling them up.”

“Yeah? How am I going to do that?”

“I know you’re not the artistic type, so expressing yourself through painting or drawing or writing music isn’t going to help you unless you suddenly develop an interest,” he says. “But I know that you are normally physically active, and you’ve stopped any exercise. You need to run. Find the treadmill in the Training Center’s victor exercise room and run. Make sure that you have plenty of food and water so you don’t make yourself sick, but work out your emotions through exercise.”

“All fine and dandy if I could get myself to actually locate the exercise room,” I say.

“This is what I’m going to do,” he says. “Before you leave, I’m going to write a brief note that you will hand to one of the avoxes in your apartment. The note will instruct the avox to help you find the exercise room, okay?”

It sounds ridiculous that he suggests it to me at all like I’m some little kid taking a note home from school to his parents, and yet I find myself going along with it. “Alright,” I agree.

“But that means that once the avox helps you find the exercise room, you need to go, okay?” he says. “Even if you are only on the treadmill for five minutes. Even if you only walk and not run, at least for your first visit.”

“And then my depression is cured?” I say knowing that it can’t possibly be true.

“No, it won’t be cured, but it will help,” he says. “Now, what else is on your mind?”

“Solar,” I say. “I don’t know how to work with her. Our tributes are in an alliance, but she’s doing jack shit to actually do anything for Maggie. The girl lost her gloves and hat, and now she has frostbite in two of her fingers. Solar says she has sponsorship money, but she won’t do anything. _And_ she made me go to some random person’s house rather than working in the Training Center because she likes to make sure that I’m uncomfortable.”

“She’s a difficult person to work with,” he says.

“Shit, you can say that again,” I mutter.

“I understand that most victors tend to get along with each other,” he says. “Maybe not as friends, but at least in a professional sort of relationship, like colleagues or business partners.”

“Solar makes it extremely difficult to even attempt,” I reply. “She has always been threatening me and taunting me. She likes to make sure I know when I’ve failed and how many people I’ve pissed off.”

“Every time you talk about Solar, you become very tense,” Harmony says. “I can see it physically affect you, and no doubt it affects you in other ways.”

“Of course it physically affects me. She’s a nightmare to be around,” I say sharply. I sit up straight and run my hand across the armrest. “Ever since I first met her. She invades my personal space, she tells me cruel things. She even wanted me to abandon Ilana in the bloodbath. It’s sickening that people think she could be anything but a terrible person after she tried to kill me in the arena. I don’t understand why the hell no one will acknowledge that she’s so fucked up. And what she did to me after the arena was even worse in some ways. And yet I’m still expected to go on like—”

“What did she do to you after the arena?” Harmony interrupts.

I freeze. I . . . hadn’t meant to say that. At all. I hadn’t meant to bring anything up, even by vague reference. I had just been ranting, and I had let my guard down and forgotten that there were some things I was never supposed to speak about with anyone, even with my therapist, and now that I have. . . .

I fumble for some way to recover from this and to assure Harmony that I had misspoken. But in my silence as I try to come up with some workaround for my slipup, I know that no excuse I give will cut it.

My palm digs into the rough upholstery of the armrest and I try to stabilize my thoughts.

“After I left the hospital. . . .” I start, only to choke up. My throat aches and threatens to close. Maybe I shouldn’t be saying this; maybe it’s a warning to keep my mouth shut. It takes significant effort to force myself onward, and I wonder if I’ll use all of my energy for the day right here and now. “Um, Solar. . . . She forced me to have sex with her. A couple times. She told me that if I didn’t, she’d get George and Joule sent to the arena. And I believed her because I’m stupid, and also because she had sent me that poison and so I knew she had powerful friends who would help her make good on her promise.”

Harmony doesn’t respond, and I wonder if I said something I wasn’t supposed to. The room might be scrambled and he might not be taking notes, but that doesn’t mean that I’m allowed to say whatever I want probably. And here I have overstepped a line. Or worse—maybe Harmony thinks that I _wanted_ to have sex with Solar, and he’s trying to figure out how to tell me that I’m completely delusional to think that I didn’t. She’s beautiful, after all, or at least she was before my eyes were gouged out. I can’t imagine she’s changed much in three years. My heart thumps quickly and I press my palm down even harder on the armrest to try to get myself back under control.

Aww shit, I’m crying, I realize. Tears trickle down my cheeks, and I quickly wipe them away with my sleeve in an attempt to look like I’m not a complete mess even though I’m sure it’s very apparent to Harmony at this point.

“Have you told anyone?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Pitch saw her leave my hotel room, and then he told Ferrer, and then Ferrer arranged for you to come back to District 5 with me,” I say quietly.

“What about Marie?”

“I, um, no not really. I was having trouble when we—I mean, she knows, but she doesn’t know who,” I answer, my voice dropping down into barely more than a whisper. Saying these things simultaneously releases a heaviness that I didn’t know I was carrying around and makes me feel damned stupid. Spontaneous crying really doesn’t help the situation.

He’s quiet again, and I’m left in this miserable state wondering why the hell I had opened my mouth to begin with.

“I really shouldn’t have said anything,” I finally say. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Elijah, I’m sorry that she did that to you,” Harmony interrupts before I can blabber out an apology. “It is clearly very hard for you talk about this, so thank you for sharing it with me.”

He gives me a second to reply, but I say nothing.

“When somebody takes advantage of us like this, it hurts us in ways we don’t always understand,” he says. “Under normal circumstances, the first priority is making sure that you are safe. I apologize for my hesitation, but I know that your situation can’t be considered ‘normal’ circumstances. We can’t go to the police, we can’t keep her away from you—these are things we may have wanted to consider if we were able.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” I mutter.

“But even if it seems like there is ‘nothing’ we can do from a legal standpoint, rape is still a very serious thing,” Harmony says.

“I wasn’t raped, I—” but I can’t complete my sentence. Because now it’s finally connecting that what Solar did to me is the exact same thing that many of these Capitolites have done to other victors. She might not have had the power and status that they do, but she was still more powerful than me and she threw that power around to make sure I knew where I stood. Is it really that different than what Rameses did to Lady?

After I gather my thoughts, I manage to say, “I hate her, Harmony.”

“It’s completely valid to be upset after someone takes advantage of us like that, but we also need to make sure that we’re able to keep living,” he says. “Sometimes holding onto strong feelings doesn’t allow us to do that. Let’s talk about this.”

So we do. Mostly it’s just Harmony going on about how recovery will be challenging, just like any sort of recovery from anything I’ve experienced in the last three years, and it all sounds like the same old song and dance. He gives me more breathing techniques and other things to do when I’m forced to be in the same room as her, but it all sounds pretty weak; knowing that I’m not allowed to do anything to escape from her and that she is free from all punishment really tarnishes his advice. Of course I knew this before, but now that Harmony has said it aloud, it somehow makes it very real. I’m trapped.

After awhile, Harmony says, “What do you think, Elijah? Anything else?”

Anything else? Geeze. Shit. There’s so much else. Where the hell do I even begin? As I think about this for a second, I wipe my cheeks on the sleeve of my shirt. I think Harmony offers me some tissues, but I can’t think clearly enough to figure it out because my mind is whirring along thinking through the plethora of shit I’ve slogged through in the past few years that I can now actually talk about. Before I can stop myself, words pop out of my mouth:

“Yeah, should we talk about the fact that I really did get my parents and Joule killed, or is that still something we’re going to pretend didn’t happen?” I say roughly.

“We had previously talked about it being an accident—”

I cut him off. “Yeah, yeah, except that it wasn’t,” I say. “I had been ‘warned’ (by Solar, who of course I didn’t listen to, and by an official) that I was supposed to move my family into my mansion as soon as possible. I didn’t listen, and then they ended up dead.”

“Have you considered that it might have been coincidence?”

“Harmony, you don’t know many victors, do you?” I ask. “They warn you, you don’t listen, and then people die.”

Once again, Harmony is silent, but now I wonder if I’ve put too much on the guy. Sure, he’s a therapist, but when he asked me to come back today, he probably thought I’d sit here and go on about how much the Hunger Games sucked. But then adding in Solar and slapping on this fun fact about my family might have pushed him right over.

“I’ll be honest with you, Elijah,” he says. “I had . . . heard some things about other victors, but I hadn’t wanted to believe them. And when your brother was so upset—”

“It’s why Henry left,” I continue. “He blamed me for their deaths, and rightfully so. I should have said something to my parents about moving to the new house, but I didn’t. I was notified, but I ignored it. I thought that—I guess it doesn’t matter anymore since they’re dead.”

“Go on, Elijah,” he encourages me.

I explain to him the entire situation, including how I was so afraid of Solar that I encouraged my family to stay away. Harmony was there but he, like everyone else, was unaware of the true reason that my parents and little sister died. He knew that Henry blamed me for their deaths, but he didn’t fully understand why. But now he knows, and how he can see for himself how much I screwed up that situation.

“So not only am I responsible for that, but I’m also terrified that if I do anything remotely wrong, they’ll kill Marie,” I say. “Or George or my grandfather, but Marie and the baby. . . .” My voice trails off.

He spends the next couple minutes trying to convince me that my family’s deaths wasn’t my fault, but I can’t really get on board with it. I nod at the appropriate times and pretend that I’m listening, but I’m really wondering about my wife and how she is doing at home and whether I’m going to be able to get through my time in the Capitol without doing something that will get her killed.

“Elijah, I think I’m losing you here,” Harmony says, and I manage to tune back in.

“Yeah, I think so,” I say.

“I know we originally agreed to meet twice a week, but I’d like to see you back in another two days,” he says. “We’re going to work through this, but it’s going to take time. The challenges victors face are unique, and we have to approach it together by modifying the techniques that we’d recommend for the general public.”

“Because we can’t actually address the problems,” I mutter.

“To some extent, yes, that is the issue,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean that we’re helpless, okay? So we’re going to continue working on this. . . . And I do want to thank you for talking with me today. I think this might have been the most open you’ve been with me, so thank you.”

Harmony gives me a few more reassuring words and then schedules me for two days’ time. He scribbles the note for an avox on a piece of paper and offers it to me. It takes him a few tries to get me to pay attention enough to take it from him, and he pauses to check to make sure that I’m okay before we stand up and walk to the door. Again, more assurances that everything will be okay and that I can’t give up hope. I nod and thank him, but I’m sure he notices that my mind is elsewhere and I can’t really afford to be here in the present at the same time.

As the cab takes me back to the Training Center, I wonder if I was wrong to tell him all of this. Not for the sake of sparing his feelings but because these are the sorts of things that victors are just supposed to accept as part of their lives, and trying to overcome them isn’t allowed. It sounds crazy, but what if the Capitol sees me improving . . . will they know why? Will they suspect that I’m learning to deal with all the shit they throw at me? Will someone die as a result?

I turn the note over in my hand and tell myself that I will not allow myself to get sidetracked. The moment I get into the apartment, I’ll give this to the first avox I can find and insist that I go to the exercise room before I lose my nerve and chicken out entirely. Certainly the Capitol won’t care if I get some exercise; they’re the ones who made the room for us to use after all. It’s little consolation, but it is something. And I guess I’ll have to start there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go, Unicorn7 - he finally told Harmony about Solar. Three years later that what you (and other readers) wanted.


	29. Chapter 29

The blizzard continues. The remaining nine tributes have hunkered down in various shelters. James and Maggie occupy a small cave between large boulders. They say little to each other, but they’re at least comfortable enough in each other’s presence to not worry that they’ll stab each other in the back. Fuel runs short in their cave, so they build up the fire every now and again as they try to keep Maggie’s fingers warm, only to let it go out to conserve the limited tinder they have found. James places rocks into the fire and them slips them into extra socks and has Maggie hold onto them whenever they have to put out the fire.

It’s been two days since a tribute was killed. Aside from the bloodbath, not a single death has happened because of tribute interaction. Hypothermia and muttation deaths that happened days ago won’t keep the audience entertained for much longer. Surely the Capitol grows restless for some tribute murder.

And I suppose I’m going to find out what exactly everyone’s thoughts are on this because I have a party to attend soon enough.

The discussion with Harmony earlier today weighs heavily on my mind. Even finding the exercise room with the help of an avox and running on the treadmill for a few minutes didn’t do much to help clear my brain of all the chaos jumbled within it. Depression becomes the least of concerns when I know that it pales in comparison to whatever will happen this evening at the party. To whom will I need to whore myself in order to get James some money? What, exactly, will I need to do in order to secure him popularity by the people who decide whether he lives or dies?

I listen to the wind whip across the arena, and I know that whatever is happening right now is the calm before the storm.

_Just get through this._

Iset doesn’t make small talk with me as the cab takes us to the party. I don’t know if she’s not a fan of useless words or if she knows she won’t get much out of me. I’m okay with this at first, but anxiety takes hold as I approach the unknown in the immediate horizon.

As we draw nearer to the party, I find myself asking, “Who all is going to be there?”

She lists off names that I don’t know, but fortunately she tacks on a phrase to clarify who each person is. A gamemaker or two, several arena architects, and many people who have a good amount of money and are distant enough from the Hunger Games to place bets or offer sponsorships. I have to wonder what Iset’s actual connection to this whole thing is and why she really wanted to come with me, but I hope to God that she is actually going to help me get sponsorships for James and hasn’t been influenced too heavily by Solar’s assholish nature.

Music blasts from the part, audible well before we get out of the car. The vehicle slows to a stop, and Iset and I get out. The pulsing beat is enough to make me want to scramble back into the cab, but I hold myself steady.

“Elijah!” Iset nearly shouts. “I said, Are you ready to go inside?”

I start with the sudden words and she laughs.

“Yeah, it’s way too loud,” she confirms. “But we’ll find someplace quiet once we get inside.”

I feel her hand on my elbow, and I realize that she’s slipping her arm into mine. In this manner, she leads me towards the pounding noise without making it look like she is really leading me. I move my cane before me with my free hand and I hope that people will think that she’s merely guiding me and that it’s not anything more than that. But once we’re through the doors, there isn’t much room for my cane to maneuver through the crowd before it’s knocking into people’s shoes and ankles. My motions grow shorter and shorter as we go, and just when I think I have to give up using my cane entirely, we break free into an area that’s more sparsely inhabited.

Iset opens a door, and when we step through and she closes it, the loudness dissipates by a fraction of a decibel, but it’s enough to allow me to breathe again.

“You don’t like loud noises,” she comments as we walk down a hallway, putting the loud noises further and further behind us.

“No, oddly enough, I don’t,” I answer dryly.

She leads me into another part of a building, and now I hear music again, though not nearly so loud and overwhelming. We step through another doorway, and then there are voices as people talk amongst each other.

“The people at the other part of the party think they’re elite, but really they have nothing on anyone here,” she whispers to me. “This is where you’ll find all the people I was telling you about.”

Alright. The gamemakers, the people who work on the arena, the folks who are rich and powerful but can still place bets and sponsor tributes. This is where I’ll need to be on my best behavior.

Iset still holds onto my arm as we wander further into the room, and I pray that she’s navigating me appropriately. She says hello to people and introduces us like we’re all good friends; they know who I am, of course, but I have no clue who I’m greeting besides whatever name she gives me. Names mean nothing if I can’t anchor them to faces or at very least facts or roles.

“Everyone so far isn’t worth your time,” she whispers again, her breath warm on my ear. “I’ll let you know when we come across someone good.”

So we continue onward. I’m swept up in the chaos, greeting people and assuring anyone who asks that James is a worthwhile tribute and will be a very good victor. I think I manage to generate some interest in him which gives me a bit of hope that he’s not going to be offed at the next possible opportunity. The fact that I said I’d do a Top Eight interview seems to help. Though, I soon discover, people think that I have something clever up my sleeve that I’m going to reveal at the interview. I don’t, and it concerns me a little that if I fail to deliver, they’re going to lose all interest in James once more.

But I don’t have time to think about my options about how to handle it as I’m passed from person to person.

Finally Iset whispers to me, “This one is a good one. Choose him.” And then her voice opens up as she greets a man by the name of Vespasianus.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elijah,” the man says to me. His voice is sharp and cold, like I am somehow speaking to the embodiment of a knife blade. Not concerning at all, I tell myself. I’m sure he’s a completely well-adjusted individual. Just go with it.

“Same to you, Mr. Vespasianus,” I say.

“Your tribute is an interesting kid,” he says. “Fast runner. Good survivalist. Quick thinker. Much better than a Training Score of 3.”

“I agree with that,” I say. “James didn’t show all his skills in the training room. Nor has he done so in the arena yet.”

I hope. I hope that when it comes down to it, James is as good in fight as he said he is. Something to show that he’s better than what people expect, especially his fellow tributes.

“He sounds like an intriguing character,” Vespasianus says.

“I agree, Vespasianus,” Iset says by my side.

Now the man speaks with something akin to fondness to the girl: “Aren’t you not supposed to be influencing the situation, young lady?” he asks.

Iset laughs. “Oh please,” she says with amusement. “Are you going to tell my father?”

This gets the two of them bantering back and forth for a minute, and I wonder if they’ve forgotten all about James entirely. I have no place in their conversation even if I wanted to join them, and they have long since forgotten my tribute.

Hang on, I tell myself. The evening will come to an end soon enough. I might not secure a sponsorship for James, but at least I’m letting people know that he’s worth supporting.

Finally Vespasianus turns his attention back to me. “Let’s talk about your tribute, Elijah,” he says. “I am very interested to see what he can do. If he’s even half as talented as you, I think we’re in for a surprise. But it’s much too loud here, so why don’t we settle on a time and place to discuss this just between the two of us?”

“Yessir. Thank you, sir,” I say quickly before I can think about what this discussion might entail.

“I don’t suppose writing down my address on a napkin is going to do you much good,” he says.

“I normally have addresses texted to me,” I say.

“Very well,” he says. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I think we might see some action with the District 1 pair in just a moment.”

He must not wait for Iset or me to say anything because after a moment, Iset leans into me and says, “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

For her. But what the hell did I just get myself into?

I can’t think about it now. I just _can’t_. Because it doesn’t matter what I got myself into if James gets the sponsors he needs. And I’m not going to be able to make it through this evening if I’m too worried that I might have just sold my soul. Or worse. So I pretend that nothing of great interest occurred and I allow Iset to lead me around and introduce me to more people. None of them seem interested in sponsoring James, and I don’t have the courage to initiate that sort of discussion with them.

“I’m getting tired,” I eventually say to Iset.

“Social interaction must be hard without vision,” she says.

“Er, well, yeah,” I answer. It’s hard all the time, but definitely hard when I can’t see shit and am bombarded with noises from all direction without the ability to assign each one to its source.

Iset seems remarkably sympathetic, or maybe she just has grown tired of the party herself and wants some sort of excuse to leave. I still don’t see what she has gotten out of this, but maybe in some weird way, being around me has increased her social standings. Or something?

You know what, I don’t care. I’m just exhausted and I want to get back to the Training Center.

We head out of the party, saying our goodbyes to people in passing. She takes me out a back way so that I don’t have to pass through the loud music of the main party, and then we call a cab. Once again, our drive is in silence, but it’s not an uncomfortable one. Neither of us has any desire to speak, and that’s just fine.

When the vehicle slows down in front of her place, I say, “Thank you.”

“For what?” she asks.

“Er, for going to the party,” I say. Though honestly, she should be thanking _me_ for going since it wasn’t my idea, but I also know that it doesn’t matter to Iset since she didn’t have to go and grovel for money. In that way, it was to my benefit to attend.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. Then she hesitates and adds, “But you know—why don’t you come inside for a few minutes?”

Now I hesitate. I thought it was pretty clear that I am exhausted and it wasn’t just something I was saying to get out of the party.

“C’mon,” she says as she throws the door open.

What choice do I have to follow the daughter of a gamemaker?


	30. Chapter 30

“My brother is out for the evening, so don’t worry too much about him,” Iset says as she closes the door behind us. As I had done before I went to the apartment to meet Solar, I had requested a verbal description of Iset’s place before I came to pick her up this evening. A nice apartment, though small. Definitely in one of the most well-to-do parts of the city. But of course she has a good place; she is the child of a gamemaker.

Iset disappears from my side and I hear her clattering around, but within moments she returns to me.

“Make yourself at home,” she says warmly.

“I really should be getting back to the Training Center,” I say. I know that it’s dangerous of me to protest against the wishes of the Capitolites, but Iset seems more reasonable than most. Certainly she can tell how exhausted I am and that this is not more of an excuse to her than it had been to get out of the party. My shoulders droop with weariness, and I can’t get myself to budge from my position by the door to at least pretend to be polite.

Iset hesitates. For a moment, I think she’s going to tell me to go home. But then she says, “You know, Elijah, I would like to watch the Hunger Games with you. Just for a little while.”

“I—” but I close my mouth. Did I think she was reasonable? Certainly I was mistaken. My stomach churns, but I know that I’ve used my one shot to bow out of this politely, and now I can only go along with it. “Sure, okay.”

“Great,” she says happily. As though I really changed my mind because I wanted to stay with her. “C’mon, my room is just over here.”

Her room. Not the living room or sitting room or another relatively public place.

Ah, right. This is what she wanted out of the evening. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that strong morals don’t run through this family, but part of me had foolishly believed that maybe Iset wasn’t like most Capitolites. Why? Because she told me that she didn’t want this? Because I stupidly trusted her to tell me the truth? I wordlessly follow her to her bedroom, listening to the sounds of her footsteps and trying to stay alert enough not to get myself completely turned around.

“The bed’s over to your right. Make yourself comfortable. I’m just going to go put on something else,” she says as she moves around the room. Drawers open and slam shut as she talks. “Did you want anything to eat or drink, by the way?”

“No, I’m fine,” I say.

“Alright, just excuse me for a second. I’m just stepping into the bathroom real quickly,” she says, and then her footsteps disappear to the far side of the room. A door closes with a solid thunk.

Oh fuck.

What the hell am I supposed to do?

I know there is nothing I _can_ do about this. And yet I feel like I _should_ do something. Like a trapped animal, I want so desperately to escape that I’ll do anything, no matter how stupid, to wrench myself free of this tight spot. But I swallow back the urge to claw myself out of here and instead I lower myself onto the foot of the bed.

Iset finds me sitting here when she returns. She laughs for a moment and then says, “That’s what you call comfortable?”

“I’m not really used to hanging out in strangers’ beds,” I comment before I can stop myself.

“Is that what I am? A stranger?” she asks.

“We just met yesterday,” I point out.

She sits down on the edge of the bed next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. Her warmth extends into me, and yet I can’t appreciate it. This isn’t what’s supposed to be happening. I want to be back with Marie. I want her warmth, not this other woman’s.

“Listen, Elijah, I just want you to spend some time with me, that’s all I’m asking,” she says as he fingers run through my hair. “I enjoyed our evening together, and I think this would be a nice way to wrap it up. C’mon, let’s get actually comfortable here.”

She stands up and I listen to her move around the side of the bed. This is it. I can’t put this off anymore. So I walk to the other side of the bed, kick off my shoes and set them aside, and climb into bed next to her. She immediately moves up against me, folding herself into me just perfectly like she’s been watching me all night and analyzing the best way to lie with her body next to mine. I take a deep breath, and she pulls away just enough to turn on the television before she returns to her place. She nestles her head against my shoulder, and I wonder if she can even see the television from this angle. I suppose that’s not the point, though, and I don’t care enough to bother asking if she’s comfortable because it’s clear that she’s made herself right at home with me.

“I do like James,” she says after the announcers have updated us that nothing of great importance has happened since the last time we tuned in. “He seems like a nice kid.”

“Thanks,” I say. Her hand rests on my chest, and I know she can feel how quickly my heart beats, though she doesn’t comment on it. Maybe she thinks it reflects my enthusiasm for this situation, I don’t know.

“You really are tired, aren’t you?” she says.

“I wasn’t lying,” I answer, allowing the heaviness to weigh down my words.

“Go ahead and get some sleep,” she says.

“Iset—” I try to figure out how to phrase this politely so no one ends up dead. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for people to see me leaving here—”

“No one cares, but if for some reason they do, I’ll just say that you were hanging out with my brother,” she says. “It’s okay, really. Just go to sleep.”

I’m very confused. So does she want to have sex with me or not? And if she doesn’t, then why the hell am I here? Just to sleep in the same bed as her as she watches the Hunger Games?

Actually, I’m not going to question it. Sleep already tugs at my brain, and I’m afraid if I try to say something else, I’m just going to botch it up royally. I start to give into the fatigue when I feel her fingers working their way along the buttons on my shirt. Instinctively my hand shoots up and grabs her wrist, and she gasps.

“Sorry,” she says. “I just thought. . . . It wouldn’t be comfortable sleeping in that.”

Probably not, but it doesn’t matter. Still, I apologize and tell her that she’s right even as my heart thumps painfully hard against my chest. I finish undoing the rest of my buttons and sit up enough to pull the shirt off. She moves to give me enough space so I don’t hit her, and then she takes the shirt from me and says she’s putting it on the chair next to the bed. By this point, grogginess overwhelms me, so I just answer with a grunt and lay back down. She takes her place next to me again and I allow the exhaustion to consume me as her fingers play absently with the collar of my undershirt.

In the morning I wake up discombobulated. The silken sheets beneath me aren’t mine. The soft pillow isn’t anything I own. My arm bumps into someone lying next to me, and for the briefest of moments, I think that I’m back home with Marie. But that twists into thoughts of Solar. Panic shoots through me, but fortunately I remember where I am before I can dissolve into a mess.

Iset. She still sleeps next to me, her head on the pillow beside mine and her breath warm on my shoulder. I don’t want to disturb her, so I give myself a couple of minutes to try to sort out what happened. We didn’t do anything. Not that I’m aware of at least. She literally just let me sleep—

And for the first time in weeks, I feel weirdly rested. Almost content.

But before I have a chance to bask in the comfort of a good night’s sleep, a stab of guilt cuts through me. Why was I able to sleep comfortably with this woman but not my own wife whom I love?

Maybe I was really exhausted, I tell myself, and I could have fallen asleep anywhere.

Or maybe I was drugged.

Yeah, either of those are better alternatives to what is most likely the reality that I just slept better with Iset than with Marie.

My hand goes to my monitoring device and I briefly check for updates. There’s not much information it can give me without activating my headphones which could potentially wake Iset up, but at least I can see that James is still alive. All of the tributes are, in fact. Another couple of days without any deaths, and likely the remaining tributes just mill around the arena trying to hang on in the ever-increasing cold.

“My father told me that they rigged up a different monitoring device for you,” Iset says sleepily. She moves away from me for a moment and yawns, only to curl up next to me again. Her fingers touch my wrist, and I know she studies my monitoring device as she holds my arm in place.

“Your father—the gamemaker,” I say.

“Mmhmm,” she says. She lowers my wrist. “Does that make you nervous?”

“I’d be stupid if it didn’t,” I say.

“Then don’t think about it,” she says. “Everyone always overthinks it anyhow. My dad might have one of the most powerful positions in the country, but that doesn’t mean that I should be treated any differently.”

“You know when you phrase it that way it doesn’t really help matters,” I say.

She cackles out a laugh before stopping herself with a choke. Really not the most attractive noise, but still somewhat endearing that she has human qualities. . . . Wait. I rethink that thought again and wonder if that’s what’s going to get people a label such as ‘endearing’—the fact that they are only monstrous ninety-nine percent of the time and not one hundred percent.

“You’re hilarious—no wonder Solar likes you,” she says.

“Solar likes me?” I say with a little more surprise than I mean to.

“See, that’s what I’m talking about,” she says. “Now, do you want breakfast before I kick you out?”

“Um, sure,” I say. “But I need to use the restroom.”

“Yeah, sure,” she says. “If you go directly right from the bed, on the far wall you’ll find the bathroom. It’s a bit of a mess, so be careful.”

“Thanks,” I say as I stand up. But I hesitate for a second as I try to remember where I put my cane. She must know what I’m looking for because I feel it tap me in the chest a moment later. I mutter another thanks and take it from her, then make my way to the bathroom.

By the time I manage to get myself put together a little better, the scent of eggs, bacon, and toast wafts into the bedroom. I grab my shirt off the chair from the bed where she had told me that she’d left it, and I follow the smells and the sounds of sizzling bacon until I reach what must be the kitchen.

“Hope scrambled is fine,” she says.

“No avox to cook for you?” I ask with surprise.

“This place is too small to justify that,” she says. “We get the house cleaned twice a week, but Rameses and I manage the daily tasks just fine. I’d like to think my parents raised us to be self-sufficient.”

Well that’s not a phrase you hear much in the Capitol.

Iset directs me to a chair at the kitchen counter and I take my place as directed. She claims that her apartment is a mess, but from what I’ve observed so far, it’s decent enough. Not as clean as I keep my own place, but she also doesn’t have to worry about setting down an item and losing it in eternal darkness. If I supported slavery, I might get an avox just to help me find things that are sitting in obvious locations.

As she cooks, she has the Hunger Games playing on a television somewhere in the kitchen. Again, not much is happening. We listen to Janice and Caligula dig up some interesting facts about winter-themed arenas throughout history, which makes for a tedious segment since there isn’t much to say about them. At least my arena, cold though it was, isn’t categorized as ‘winter themed.’

“Don’t worry, it’ll be over soon,” she says to me over the snapping of bacon grease.

“There aren’t many winter arenas,” I comment.

“No, I mean the lull in the Hunger Games,” she says.

I don’t have anything further to say on that topic. I rub my index finger against the stone countertop. The end of the lull means something terrible will happen, and there’s a decent chance it will involve James and Maggie. Maybe all the tributes, but the kids from District 5 are the ones that concern me the most.

_What about Artemis?_

I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.

How the hell did I manage to get myself emotionally invested in not one but three tributes?

Iset begins talking about things I don’t care about, but I humor her and listen anyhow. It at least distracts me enough from my concerns that I’m not honed in on them, even if it does nothing to relieve the discomfort. She eventually sets down a plate in front of me and offers me a variety of beverages to choose from, but I say that orange juice will be fine and I don’t need anything fancy. Once she gets me a glass of juice, she sits down in a chair across from me and we eat breakfast.

“What are your plans for the day?” she asks casually.

Whether she asks because she wants to join me or she wants insider information on my tribute, it doesn’t matter. Because my plans involve meeting the guy last night who said that he’d sponsor my tribute if I met up with him today.

“Meeting Vespasianus,” I say.

“Oh, right,” she says. She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “He’s extremely wealthy. I think that if he’s shown interest in you, he’ll be very good for James.”

In other words, I should do whatever he says. My stomach tightens at the thought, and I force myself to continue eating, though slowly. The unpredictability of this is maddening. Who will sponsor James? What will they require of me? When they give me an address and ask me to meet them there, what are they going to expect me to do? Here is Iset who just had me sleep in her bed (which wasn’t what I wanted but wasn’t the worst, either) but they could so easily ask for more. No, not ask; there is no ‘asking’ with these people. Perhaps they phrase it as such, but it’s never something we have an option over.

The conversation I overheard between Lady and Rameses springs to mind.

“Noted,” I say.

“And, Elijah? I enjoyed last night,” she says.

“We didn’t do anything,” I say.

“Do you want more?” she asks with interest.

I don’t answer that. Fine little corner I got myself into there. I can’t say no because if she wants more, then I _can’t_ say no. I can’t say yes because then it means that I want to have sex with her, which I don’t.

“Come back here tonight,” she says to me, almost speaking it like a question. “Whenever you finish up what you need to do. I think maybe 8 PM would be fine, unless you want to come over earlier for dinner.”

“I don’t want to interfere with your plans,” I say. “My schedule is pretty chaotic.”

“I imagine it must be,” she says. “Alright, then just come over around 8 PM or so. Don’t worry about interrupting me. I—”

She pauses, but I’ve already heard it: the front door opening. Her brother. There’s a bit of shuffling from the entryway, and I wonder if maybe he’ll just go right down the hall without coming into this section of the apartment, but since I have shitty luck, it doesn’t work that way.

“Iset, you didn’t tell me that we’d be having _guests_ ,” he says with surprise as he walks into the kitchen.

 _Guests_. Yeah, of course. Because even though I’ve put myself together well enough, it’s still too early to have real guests over, and any attempts at making an excuse about being early risers would be in vain considering that I’m not fully dressed. It’s very obvious what Rameses thinks happened here.

“I didn’t realize that I had to ask permission, Rameses,” she answers playfully. “You never do.”

Ugh.

Rameses comes over and sits down in a chair adjacent from us. Iset offers him breakfast, but he declines.

“So, Elijah, you really caught my sister’s attention, have you?” he says to me. I hope that he doesn’t plan on grilling me like I’m some sort of willing participant in this endeavor because I’m not sure I’ll be able to play that part convincingly enough. And what’s the point when all three of us know the truth about the situation. Do they just do this playacting in order to make themselves feel better about the things they do to us victors? Did they have a similar conversation when Lady woke up in his bed a few mornings ago?

“We went to a party last night,” she says to him. “Over at the Hamlet.”

“Ah,” he says. “She took you out to get sponsors.”

“Um, well—” I start.

“Duh,” Iset interrupts. “Vespasianus is interested in James, you know. They have a meeting later which, hopefully I’m not too rude here, I’m going to have to kick Elijah out soon so that he can go get ready for it.”

“More like he’s interested in Elijah,” Rameses says. “Rather popular, aren’t you?”

This time Iset doesn’t come in to answer for me, so after an awkward second of silence I say, “Never thought much about it.”

“Ha, right,” he says. “Anyway, I’ll let you two finish up. No need for me to interrupt.”

He climbs out of his chair and leaves the kitchen towards the hallway. From there I lose track of his movements as Iset draws my attention away from him and back to her.

“He can be pretty annoying sometimes,” she says. “But I guess that’s what brothers are for.”

Yes of course. Brothers can be nosy and irritating and way too inquisitive; it’s normal. But I don’t want to be part of _their_ norm. Once again, I have no choice. That’s how this is going, so I just nod and turn back to my breakfast.


	31. Chapter 31

“You sure this is where you want to go?” the cabbie asks me as the car pulls to a stop.

No, I’m absolutely positive it’s _not_ where I want to go. My hand touches the door and I hesitate. I don’t like the way he said that, like if I step out of the car, I’ll plunge off the side of a cliff, but I know that once again I have little choice in the matter.

“I think so. Can you describe where we are?” I ask.

“Er, we’re in a vacant lot behind an abandoned Qmart,” he says.

Ah. So that’s why the verbal description I had obtained earlier had been so meager. I thought there was an issue with the system, but it turned out that the issue was in the destination itself. My heart pounds, and I’m really wondering if this is such a smart idea.

“Qmart,” I echo.

“Yeah, one of the old department stores,” he says. “Kind of had their heyday a decade or two ago, but a few of them still hang on. Not sure why they haven’t just demolished this one.”

“Right, well, if this is 81130 Old Barley Road, then this is my destination,” I say.

“Well, I’ve heard weirder requests,” he says. “Alright then.”

“Thanks,” I say. I get out of the car and as he pulls away, I tip him extra through my phone for at least checking with me before leaving me in an abandoned field. Once the sound of the cab disappears, I am by myself in this strange part of town with the equally strange abandoned building. 

It’s my understanding that the Capitol doesn’t have vacant buildings much, if at all. There’s always something newer and shinier ready to take the place of any business that doesn’t last the test of time, so it’s a little strange to think that I was requested to come out here. I had expected another party or even a private engagement with Vespasianus.

Very little traffic comes through here; in the thirty seconds that I stand there wondering how stupid I am, I hear not a single car pass. Quite uncommon for somewhere in the Capitol unless it’s a quiet day in the suburbs.

Well, now or never. I’m not just going to stand on the sidewalk like an idiot.

It’s time to trudge across the vacant lot like an even bigger idiot.

My cane nudges the sidewalk until I find where it gives way to long, rough grasses. I trail along the boundary until it hits a particularly tough patch of grass. Crouching down, I reach out my hands. They touch the grasses, and I pat around until I find a stick that has a vague ‘y’ shape at one end. I jab the other end of the stick into the ground and dig it in so that it juts straight up into the air. Once it’s firmly in place, I fish around in my pockets until I pull out my keychain that I carry around out of habit even though it’s not like I need my house keys in the Capitol. The mailbox key and the ring it’s attached to comes off with little effort, and I place them in the ‘y’ of the stick. Once I’m somewhat satisfied, I stand back up and begin walking into the field.

The grasses and twigs scratch at my legs through my pants, threatening to snag and tear the fabric. Each step is careful as I keep track of how far I’ve walked, and I’m grateful for the calm of this abandoned lot that allows me to concentrate. Unfortunately, that’s pretty much all I’m grateful for, and I have to suppress the irritation at the fact that I’m a half-step away from being completely lost.

“Bravo, Elijah,” comes the sharp voice of Vespasianus, carried to me on the breeze. “You’ve made it far.”

“An abandoned lot?” I ask, not bothering to keep the irritation at bay.

“Only to meet,” he says. “We’ll be on our way in just a moment here. But before we do, I have to say that the little thing you rigged up with the key was quite clever.”

“Thanks,” I say. Now that I know that I’m in roughly the ‘right’ place, I come to a stop. Vespasianus is somewhere ahead of me, maybe 15 or 20 feet or so, and he seems in no hurry to continue onward wherever we’re supposed to go. It occurs to me now that I’d rather we stay here, damnable as this vacant lot is, because if he’s having me trudge through here blind, I can only imagine what he’s going to do to me once we’re in the privacy of wherever is the ultimate destination.

“Can you hear it now?”

“Yes,” I answer. The faint clinking of the key against the ring is picked up on the breeze every now and again. Frequent enough that I could find my way back to it should I need to.

“Clever,” he says. “Now let’s go. This way.”

I follow the sound of his voice, and he lingers until I have just about reached him before turning and continuing forward. His shoes crunch on the dry grasses and he keeps his pace slow enough that he doesn’t lose me as he walks. The crackle of grasses gives way to the tap of hard surface, and we step onto a concrete pad that must be behind the building. Walking is easier with a surer surface, and Vespasianus moves more quickly.

We reach the building, and I stretch out a hand and touch the rough exterior. My fingers brush across the thick pebbles in the concrete. Vespasianus clunks around with something metal. The lock for a door, maybe. After a minute, there’s a snap, followed by the grating sound of a door dragging against the concrete, and he says, “Come on in.”

“Where are we?” I ask him.

“The Qmart,” he says.

“An abandoned department store?”

“It’s only abandoned on the outside,” he says. “Now hurry up.”

Vespasianus leads me into the building and shuts the door firmly behind us. He keeps any sort of explanation to himself as he continues further into the store, and I have to move carefully to keep up without knocking into various displays (empty?) in my effort to not be left on my own. Finally he comes to a stop.

“I hope you don’t mind if I take a seat for a moment,” he says to me.

“No, that’s fine,” I answer. I don’t think I would even want to sit if he offered me a chair, and since it’s clear that he’s not quite a reliable character, I find it hard to be offended that he has decided to make himself comfortable and leave me standing here awkwardly.

“Why do you think I brought you here?” he asks me as he gets himself situated in his chair.

“I thought we were here to talk about my tribute,” I say carefully.

“Yes we are,” he says. “James is an interesting kid. There’s clearly more to him than meets the eye. So I’m going to propose something to you: I will sponsor him if you will do me a favor in return.”

I nod without even bothering to think about what this favor might be. I have no interest in men, but if that’s what is required from me, then so be it. It’s not like they ask us what our preference is before they force us to have sex anyhow. Yet somehow I’m not sure that’s why I’m here, and I hesitate to say that that’s a good thing until I know the actual purpose of being dragged out to an abandoned building.

“You, too, are an interesting person,” he continues. “You see, we still aren’t certain how you managed to win the Hunger Games after you were blinded. They tested your hearing afterwards, though those results must be regarded with skepticism. So today we are going to perform some tests right here, and how well you do will determine how much financial support your tribute will receive.”

What the hell?

For a moment, I don’t respond to his ‘proposition’ as I try to understand what he’s saying. Confusion must be evident on my face, but the man doesn’t say anything else to clarify what’s going on. He’s waiting for me to make my move and yet I have no idea how to proceed from here.

“You’re going to pay me based on how good my hearing is?” I finally say.

“Not your hearing specifically,” he says. “How good _you_ are.”

Alright, this is weird. Really weird. But it could be worse.

“To your left is a variety of knives,” he says. “I’m sure you will find some there to your liking. Go ahead—make yourself acquainted with them.”

I feel around to my left, but it takes a minute, and a couple of steps over, to find the table of knives he referenced. My hand carefully pats around them as I get a sense of the variety of weaponry that he has given me. Curiosity dissolves into fear as my fingers brush across the smooth metal and polished handles. Knives. I haven’t—

It’s been so long.

Sure I whittle wood, but those knives are different. They’re less of knives and more like tools. I haven’t been able to touch a knife outside of the dinner table since I returned from the arena.

And yet despite not handling a proper knife in several years, they feel comfortable. Reassuring. As my fingers feel the handle and trace over the rivets of one of the knives, it’s like no time has elapsed at all. Vespasianus says nothing as I take my time learning about each knife by feel alone. Weight, size, sharpness, material. There must be dozens here, but finally I pick out one.

It occurs to me then, in but a split second, that I could turn around and kill Vespasianus with it.

This would accomplish nothing, in fact it would make things worse, but it is something that is within my power.

“Did you make your selection?” he asks.

I hold up the knife.

“A good choice,” he says. “Down beneath the table you will find several drawers. The fourth drawer down on the far right has nine more of that same type. Go ahead and open it and remove all of those knives.”

I do as he says. His instructions are simple and clear enough that it doesn’t take me long to locate the drawer and open them. I proceed carefully but find that he spoke the truth: the drawer has nine other knives identical to the one I now hold in my hand. I remove each knife individually and place it on the table separate from the other knives so that they don’t get mixed together.

“Now how you proceed from here is very simple,” he says. “I am going to give you a bit of a challenge. I have some targets, and I want you to throw the knives at the targets.”

“It’s been awhile,” I say. “I’m very out of practice.”

“As expected,” he says. “But for every knife that hits the target, I will provide more money to sponsor your tribute.”

Damn. Then it doesn’t matter if I’m out of practice or not. I _have_ to land all these knives or I’m going to screw over James. Shit. I take a breath to steady my racing brain and tell myself that I am perfectly capable of throwing knives. Even if my hand trembles on the blade I currently hold. Even if I want nothing to do with them. I’m going to have to figure out how to overcome it all right now.

“I have rigged up a bit of a course for you here,” he says. “You will start at the aisle about ten feet from here, and you will find your way through the store. There are ten targets.”

“What are my targets?” I ask.

“Simple little things, really,” he says. “You will know them when you hear them.”

“I’m not—” I pause for a second to rework my question. “They’re mechanical, right?”

“Elijah, I don’t think you’re in a position to question the ethics of the situation,” he says. “Or would you prefer to back out now and not secure any money for your tribute?”

Well he has me there. I swallow hard and turn the knife over in my hand. Worst case scenario I can go forward with this and if it seems too nuts, I’ll just tell him that I’m out. But it wouldn’t hurt to at least figure out what his little ‘course’ looks like before I chicken out. For all I know, the targets are just pieces of paper or bags of flour.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”

“I will be monitoring your progress from here. You will hear a beeping sound. That is where you will be starting,” Vespasianus says. “Oh, and leave your cane here with me. You won’t be needing that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my brain died partway through editing.
> 
> Also, apparently there are only like 30 Kmart stores left. So if you ever pass by an empty shell of a store, think about this. Or don't.


	32. Chapter 32

Squirrels.

The targets are squirrels. Of course. Because somehow I managed to actually hit a squirrel with a knife while I was in the arena. But the thing had been so small, and I had nearly botched it up entirely. Had to put the creature out of its misery. How the hell will I be able to hit a squirrel from a good distance after three years without any sort of practice?

I crouch on the ground with my back to an empty shelf and listen to the creature chatter from its position on the floor about ten feet away from me. Although Vespasianus had offered me ten knives, I only took one with the thought that I could always go back and get more if needed. But honestly, I figured I wouldn’t be hitting many targets and thus would have no issue reusing knives, though I kept this hesitation to myself. I press the palm of my free hand against the cold, dusty tiles and keep my ears focused on the squirrel. It chatters for a moment, moves, and then chatters again. The movements appear to be erratic, but it always seems to stop for long enough so that I could potentially hit it if I wanted to.

_A muttation._

I don’t know why the thought occurs to me. It’s not like real squirrels don’t pause every now and again. Perhaps this seems to be too much of a pattern. Walk, pause, walk, pause, walk, pause. No natural squirrel is that consistent in its movements.

So I silently count out the length of time it pauses, and I try to determine if I’ll be able to ready my knife quickly enough to throw it before the squirrel moves again. Sure enough, it seems like every interval of ‘pause’ is roughly consistent. No sudden movements. No surprises.

A nice little warm-up.

I’m meant to hit this target. It’s not supposed to be difficult by any means.

Still, I take my time and allow myself to grow comfortable with the weight of the knife in my hand. I move it about easily and then get into position to throw it. Once poised to let the knife go, I listen to the squirrel again and concentrate. It’s not that far away. The movements are consistent. I can do this.

The knife sinks into the squirrel, and the animal gives the briefest squeak before it tumbles over dead.

“Way to go,” comes Vespasianus’ voice over a speaker not far from me. “Just nine more.”

I cover the ground between myself and the squirrel.

It’s only a creature, I tell myself. A muttation at that.

But that doesn’t do much to relieve the fact that I managed to kill it without hesitation. Just like I was back in the arena. Like those three years of recovery meant nothing.

I kneel down near where I last heard the squirrel and find it fairly easily. My hand touches its warm body. Definitely a muttation: three times as big as a normal squirrel. I wrench my knife out of its corpse and stand up.

As Vespasianus said, nine more. And then I can delude myself into believing that I’ve managed some sort of recovery over the past few years. But we all know that’s a lie. I’m still the same person I was when I left the arena, and as evidenced by this, that’s not going to change so easily. Not when everything is still so well engrained within me that I don’t even have to think twice about it.

My footsteps echo through the aisle despite my efforts to walk quietly. The shelves I’ve touched so far have been empty, and I imagine that most of this store was gutted after it went out of business. Nothing to absorb the sound means that every little noise readily bounces around. It didn’t seem to bother the last squirrel, nor does it bother the one up ahead I hear chittering and scrambling about.

This squirrel is clearly faster. Once again, I drop into a crouch and listen. It moves with more energy, darting around the aisle and clambering around on the shelves. But despite this, after a couple of minutes, I realize that it has a very clear pattern of movement. It pauses far less frequently than the last squirrel, but its movements become somewhat predictable. I allow myself to become accustomed to its pattern before I ready my knife. The moment that my weapon leaves my hand, I know that it can only be a direct hit.

The squirrel falls off the shelf and thumps to the floor dead.

I retrieve my knife from its large body, and am rewarded with words from Vespasianus: “Eight left.”

And so it goes. Each muttation squirrel is a little different than the last. Each one has a new challenge. One moves so quickly there is no way I’d be able to hit it. It’s only when I’m nearly done killing the other squirrels that I return to it with some seeds I found in an aisle and bait it to hold still. It works, and I’m one squirrel closer to my goal. Another squirrel is almost imperceptibly silent, and I almost miss it entirely but withhold from throwing my knife at the last moment. Then I resign myself to listening more patiently for its little noises. Another squirrel evades me by knocking items off the sparse shelves into my path to throw me off. 

Perhaps the most challenging one doesn’t wait for me to attack it: it lunges right at me the moment I’m within it’s ‘territory.’ I hear it running at me, but before I can even think, it throws itself on me and knocks me off my feet. I land hard on the tile floor, the wind temporarily knocked out of me. But despite knowing that Vespasianus probably wouldn’t let me get killed by muttation squirrels, instinct kicks in and I grab its twenty-pound frame and throw it as hard as I can. The squirrel smashes into the shelving unit, likely knocking out several empty shelves that clatter to the ground shortly afterwards.

This only seems to have angered the creature, and once again, it’s running at me. Terrifying, honestly, to not be able to see whatever is racing at top speeds right at me.

I dodge out of the way at the last moment and listen as it lands on a shelf right behind me.

There’s no way I’m going to be able to kill this squirrel by throwing my knife if it moves like this. No pattern. No pausing. No mercy.

So when the squirrel jumps at me again, I wait until it’s about to lunge and swing my knife. The blade catches it, but just barely.

And now the squirrel is _livid_.

It throws itself on me again, and it sinks its teeth into my arm. I scream and curse it and stab the knife down at it. The animal cries out, and I withdraw the knife and sink it back in until the squirrel tumbles off me onto the ground. Another stab and it falls silent.

Finally Vespasianus says, “You are doing very well, Elijah. You have one left. If you make this next kill, I will quadruple the financial support you have earned for James.”

Okay, I tell myself, you can do this.

Sweat drips down my temples from the exertion of this little exercise Vespasianus is putting me through. I pause to wipe my face on my sleeve, but it does little more than smear the sweat around my face.

My arm hurts, and I take a moment to pull myself together. This is going to make the dumbest doctor’s visit, but I’ll probably need a dozen vaccines after getting bitten by something like this. I avoid touching the wound, but my fingers feel around it, becoming familiar enough with it to know that it’s about an inch across and bleeding freely.

Well, I’m probably already a mess, so I pull off my button-down shirt, slice a long strip out of the fabric, and wrap it around the wound. It won’t be the best, but at least it’ll help stem the flow of blood and keep it from filling with dirt from this nasty abandoned store. If my shirt isn’t completely covered with grime to begin with, that is.

With that taken care of, I have to face the final squirrel. The last challenge, worth quadruple what I have already accumulated for James. In a cold arena where nothing of great importance has happened, there will undoubtedly be something ‘worthwhile’ happening soon, and it could very well mean that James is left seriously injured. Or dead, but then the sponsorship money doesn’t matter. If he is injured, he will need something from the store, and this late in the Hunger Games, anything will be extremely expensive.

But if the last squirrel was just a ‘normal’ amount of money, I know that whatever challenge lies before me is going to be far more difficult.

I take a few steadying breaths, and then I push forward. I listen to the sound of my footsteps as I walk through the store. My free hand trails along the nearest shelf, breaking away long enough when I have to move on to the next. But this squirrel, it seems, is far more challenging to find than any of the other nine.

Just as I’m finally wondering if there is no final squirrel, a sound draws my attention. Carefully, ever-so-carefully, I walk down the aisle and around the corner. Crouching near the endcap, I listen to the noise to start up again so I can place the squirrel in my range.

But instead of the chattering and scampering that I’d grown used to, when the noise starts up again, I realize that it’s actually the tinkling of bells.

Bells? Why the hell did they put bells on a squirrel—

_Not a squirrel._

My heart thumps heavily. Quickly. I almost can’t hear the bells over the pounding beat against my chest. But I strain to fight through the pulsing of blood rushing through my ears and focus on the bells again. There has to be something more to this. They must’ve tied the bells to the squirrel. There can be no other option here.

The blood-slickened knife in my hand yearns to be thrown again, but I fight the temptation to let it fly at the target.

A target that is too motionless.

And—

—A target that whimpers.

I hoist myself to my feet and tread carefully as I move forward. The moment that the tenth target sees me, I hear a cry of fear, followed by sobbing. A desperate scramble to move away from me. But despite the efforts, the target remains in place. I kneel down next to the sound.

“Hey,” I say.

I’m met with weeping.

My hand goes up, and I find the target’s face. My fingers trail along the cheek before stumbling over a strip of fabric. A gag.

Shit, really?

I work the gag away from the mouth so that it drops down around the target’s neck.

“Can you speak?” I ask.

For an answer, I receive jingling of bells.

An avox. Of course it’s an avox. I wonder with a lurch if this is one of ‘my’ avoxes. One of the people I’ve passed dozens, maybe hundreds, of times but never knew existed. Never knew that she existed, was her own person, had her own personality and history and future. And now that our paths have crossed, it was solely so that I could kill her.

I move my hand down and find that she has been bound, her hands drawn behind her and tied tightly with rope. She whimpers as I move my knife, but I only cut her free. All of the eagerness to kill left me the moment I realized what my most recent target was, and now I use my weapon not to end her life but to set her free.

Footsteps behind me draw my attention away from the avox, and I turn around, knife in hand.

Vespasianus gives a little chuckle.

“Her leg is broken, so she won’t run from you,” he says. “Kill her now, and your tribute will easily become the wealthiest person in the arena.”

James—

No way. I can’t just kill this avox. She’s helpless. She can’t defend herself. She doesn’t deserve to die.

But does James? Does he deserve the situation he has been put in? No, of course he doesn’t. I promised him that I would do whatever I needed to do in order to get him out of the arena. I knew that it would be a hard promise to keep and that I might have to do despicable things to honor it, but I had no intention of breaking it. James is my responsibility. Not Maggie, not Artemis, not this avox. How is this avox’s death any different than the death of the tributes?

But can I do that? Can I kill this innocent person in order to give another person a chance to live?

My mouth opens, but I can’t speak any words. Just as mute as the avox who sit on the cold tiles beside me.

A life for a life. Was it that different when I was in the arena?

I turn the knife over in my hand and feel its weight in my palm.

I promised James I’d do whatever I could to save him.


	33. Chapter 33

I can’t.

This girl doesn’t deserve to die just so that James may win. What would that do but perpetuate the cycle of violence I have yearned to be free from? Killing in the arena is murder, but for most of us, it’s also self-defense. Even if it’s easy to forget. Even if I can’t always rationalize it that well. But it’s _different_ than just offing somebody in cold blood.

Sinking my knife into this tenth ‘target’ will earn James a ridiculous amount of money, but what would it really mean to know that I had done something so cowardly and disgusting as this in the process?

“No.” I shake my head and lower the knife.

“You will willingly give up a significant financial contribution to your tribute?” he asks, his voice level. Whether he’s surprised or not by my decision, I can’t tell.

“I won’t do it,” I say firmly. Or as firmly as I can muster.

“Elijah, I urge you to reconsider,” says Vespasianus. “Your tribute—”

Without waiting for him to finish, I chuck the knife as far as I can. It clatters to the floor or against a shelf, and it’s with that noise that something lifts itself away from me. The strange, brutal part of my brain that is tied with the cold blade has vanished, following its master off into the unknown distance. I press my palm against the floor and feel the coolness of the tiles.

“Very well,” the man says.

The avox lets out a breath of relief, still choked with tears.

Vespasianus covers the distance between us. His shoes click clearly on the tile floors, but come to a stop in front of me. He makes a sudden motion, and I barely have time to flinch before I hear the avox cry out. The scent of blood fills my nostrils, and the avox starts gagging.

Choking on her own blood.

“What the fuck?!” I demand as her body slumps to the ground next to me. Warmth covers my fingers pressed on the ground, and it takes my brain far too long to realize that the hot fluid is the avox’s blood. My body trembles, and I reach out for her with fumbling fingers. Grasping onto the fabric of her shirt, I feel my way towards her neck from where the blood pours freely and try to hold off the gaping wound.

It does no good. Within moments, her body goes slack, and the gurgling breaths cease.

He killed her. Just like that, Vespasianus killed her.

He planned to kill her all along, and yet he was going to have me do it. Why? As much as I want to know that there’s a rational reason (maybe she was a murderer and this was her punishment?), I can barely think right now. The girl’s blood on my hands grows cold with the surrounding air, hardening onto my skin. It’s been so long since I have been around another dead body like this. It’s—the scent is too much. The blood is too much.

“Get up, Elijah,” Vespasianus orders.

Yet my legs tremble. All of me trembles. And what I just witnessed. . . . What I was almost forced to do. . . .

“I—but you—she—”

He cuts off my incoherent blabbering with a sharp blow to my jaw.

Pain radiates outward across the side of my face and stuns me into silence, exactly like he had intended. Dizziness overcomes me, and I have to wait several seconds before I can finally pull myself together.

“Get up,” he orders once more.

This time I do what he says, albeit slowly. My entire body shakes, and I have to grasp onto a nearby shelf to steady myself so that I don’t collapse into a heap next to the still corpse of the avox.

“You will find, I’m sure, that your tribute will be missing that quadruple sponsorship,” he says. “Still, you will get the fair price I have promised you for hitting the other nine targets. Now get out of here.”

Just like that? Without any further ‘tests’? I should be grateful, but instead I feel naked and more vulnerable than I have felt in the Capitol in years. What did he find out from me but that I can easily fit back into the tribute role that I had thought I had abandoned, only to not be able to kill in the end? I don’t know why, but the fact that I couldn’t complete the tasks fills me with shame, and then loathing. I should be _happy_ that I didn’t kill that avox. But I’m not.

Because in ‘saving’ the avox, I have doomed James.

And what did I gain if the avox was killed regardless?

“Yeah, okay,” I say breathlessly. Still, I hesitate. After a moment, I manage, “I need my cane.”

“It is sitting on the table with the knives,” he says. “Now leave.”

I nod. Despite my eagerness to be done with this place, I hobble away from this scene at a pitifully slow pace, clinging to the shelf as I move. I no longer care about the pain in my arm; it means nothing to me now. What is a small bite in comparison to what I just witnessed? Once I am forced to leave the shelf, I stagger out into the open and fumble through the store until I bump into a table. It is, by some miracle, the same table that I need. It takes several seconds too long to find the cane, but I do, and from here I make my way to the door.

Once outside, the ‘chime’ I made beckons me forward, and I stumble through the field vaguely following the sound. When I come to it, I almost leave it behind, too weary to bother picking it up, but I think better and stuff the key in my pocket. From there I call a cab. It arrives before I even have a chance to complete the call; I should be suspicious, but I don’t care.

Just as I don’t care that I look like a mess.

Nor do I care that I take the front doors into the Training Center to get to my apartment as quickly as possible.

Hell, I don’t even care when I hear Ferrer’s voice from somewhere in the lobby asking me what the hell happened.

The elevator doors close, encapsulating me from the prying voice, and I have a moment to rest myself against the smooth panels before the doors open again and I step into the apartment.

A hot shower removes the grim from my body, but it does nothing to help the emptiness that swallows me up the moment the elevator doors closed behind me. With no more fear and no more hope, I have become nothing. I go through the motions of being alive, but it’s nothing more than a façade that I have inadvertently fallen into.

A doctor appears in the apartment by the time I have gotten dressed. He knocks on the bedroom door and explains that he was informed I needed medical attention. So I let him in, and he chatters as he cleans and dresses the wound. He gives me a couple of injections, but I don’t hear the explanations he gives as to what they are. When he leaves, I drag myself out to the couch and flop onto the cushions.

Regardless of what happened today, I still have a tribute to tend to. In the arena, the snow has stopped, leaving a thick layer of fresh white across the ground, and James and Maggie finally begin to venture out. Fortunately nothing happened while I was in my ‘test,’ but I know that it was rigged so that there was nothing to distract me from throwing knives. Whoever that Vespasianus man is, he’s powerful. Powerful enough to pause the Hunger Games, powerful enough to manipulate a victor in that manner, powerful enough to kill an avox without a second thought and get away unscathed.

Avoxes appear in the apartment every now and again to do their routine tasks, but every time their bells jingle, I clutch the pillow I’ve gathered into my arms and focus on the narration being fed to me.

The District 5 tributes trudge through the snow, first James, then Maggie. James has his rock in a bag that he uses as a weapon, and Maggie has a small knife. Quite meager compared to the weaponry of the remaining Careers and even the other remaining tributes.

I check on everyone in turn:

The District 1 pair are doing quite well. They have found a section of the arena that has been less impacted by the snow and they’ve managed to hunt food and gather roots despite the frozen ground. They’re cold but in good spirits. To them, the fun is just beginning.

Artemis has been well-fed by breaking through the ice in a river and fishing. She has been keeping limber by practicing her weapons in this ‘break’ the tributes have had. From what I glean from the narration, she is less ‘excited’ and more ‘determined.’ I wonder what she’s thinking about this arena and if she’s disappointed that she ended up here with something so ‘boring’ that wouldn’t let her easily show off her skills.

Her district partner, Sed, had built himself a little hut when things started to get cold. Made out of rock and branches, he successfully weathered out the storm and is in good spirits despite the lack of action in the past few days.

The District 3 boy, Tech, struggles to keep himself warm, but despite that, he has been doing well enough. Like Artemis, he has been fishing for his food, though with less success. Still, it’s been enough to get him by.

Teddy of District 6 has been hearty, but he seems to lack a plan. Ever since he and Maggie were separated, he has wandered around aimlessly, eating what food he had in his pack and rationing it out. It’s unclear what he’ll do when it’s completely gone.

The District 10 male, Walker, is a large, robust kid who seems to handle cold weather pretty decently. Like the District 2 male, he made himself his own shelter, though he isn’t nearly as eager to leave it.

Yet all the tributes, whether they want to leave relative safety or not, understand that staying in their shelters is not an option. They have to get moving lest they’re considered boring, and maybe they even want to get things over with and proceed with the Hunger Games so that they can finally go home. Or die.

The money Vespasianus promised me appears in my bank as I watch the Hunger Games and—it’s quite a generous amount. But all I can think is that I could have had quadruple that if I had not been such a coward. The avox was going to die anyhow. . . .

But I didn’t know that, did I?

Does it matter? Would I really have killed her even if I did know she would die?

With a sharp jolt, I realize that I don’t know that answer.

I rub my forehead and tell myself to focus on the tributes right now and to not think about what happened today. That’s in the past, and I can’t beat myself up over it, right? Well, no, I can. But I’ll take care of that later. Right now, tributes.

And it’s a damned good thing that I’m here watching the Hunger Games because right about then the District 2 male wanders within a few hundred meters of the District 5 tributes. The sudden threat to my tributes is enough to draw me out of myself and focus fully on what is about to unfold.


	34. Chapter 34

James sees the District 2 male, Sed, before Maggie does. He puts a finger to his lips and motions for her to follow him. The two crouch behind a large boulder and wait for Sed to clear out of their area.

No, not wait. . . .

James motions again, this time for Maggie to stay put. The girl nods and crouches deeper into the snow, and James creeps up ahead. He keeps a low profile and moves from tree to tree. The District 2 male hasn’t seen him yet, and James uses this to his advantage. Crouching down behind a snow-covered bush, he lies in wait.

Sed isn’t completely oblivious to his surroundings, but James has managed to stay out of his line of sight. The Career will notice the tracks left in the snow; he has to. The narrator describes them as being deep and prominent, so I know that at any moment, James’ cover will be blown. I focus fully on the narration and brace myself for the inevitable as the District 2 male walks closer to where James hides. His sword is out and ready.

As soon as he passes by, James darts out of his hiding place and swings his weapon. The rock collides with Sed’s arm and knocks the sword from his hand. Sed screams in pain and fury, but James rushes forward, grabs the sword, and flings it away. The Career pulls out a knife from a sheath, yet despite the new weapon, removing the sword has put James more in his own element.

Sed thrusts his knife forward, but James expertly dances away from the tip of the blade. He swings his weapon, but Sed moves out of the way. They do this, one person striking and the other dodging, for quite some time. They’re well matched, despite the Career’s years of training, and I begin to understand that James wasn’t lying about his fighting skills, not if he can keep up with a Career so easily.

Just when it appears that things are getting dull, James drops his bag with the rock, darts forward, and throws a punch that knocks Sed to the snow. James throws himself on the Career and continues to pummel him with his fists. Sed swings his knife which catches James in the upper arm. But it just barely grazes him because James is already off his opponent, moving backwards to avoid the knife.

Sed throws himself to his feet. Blood streams from his nose and split lip. One of his eyes is squinted shut. James grins at him as he comes closer, anger steaming off the Career in the cold air. But when Sed swings at James again, James moves in, disarms him, and flings the knife to the side. Once again, he’s on Sed, punching the crap out of him.

I listen to the calm voice of the narrator relay what I cannot see, and interspersed with that are the grunts of exertion and yips of pain from the tributes as they fight. Once again, they’re evenly matched, and Sed can throw punches just as well as James.

But James is clever. He knows when to back off and give the other tribute his space. He fakes him out a few times and Sed falls for it.

Sed punches James in what was a pretty obvious lapse of defense, and James falls into the snow. His hands flail around him as though he’s desperately grabbing at anything to help him clamber to his feet. The Career smirks and leans over to grab James by the collar. I brace myself for whatever happens next, but within moments it becomes clear that James had intentionally let his guard down and allowed himself to be punched: he grasps the knife, discarded and forgotten in the snow minutes before, and thrusts it up into the chest of the District 2 male.

There’s a moment of silence in which neither the tributes nor the narrator make noise.

The District 2 male collapses to the ground, blood oozing out of the wound, and a moment later, the cannon fires.

The first cannon in days.

And I realize—I really _realize_ —that James has a chance to come home alive.

With the firing of the cannon, Janice and Caligula go absolutely wild. In the excitement of the fight, they had fallen silent and I had forgotten them entirely; their sudden voices make me jump, and I grasp onto my pillow more tightly to try to steady my heartrate.

“Can you believe that?!” Caligula gasps. “James Faraday of District 5 killed Sed Rock of District 2! And what a fight that was!”

“That was just a phenomenal fight to watch,” Janice agrees. “And to think that somebody with a Training Score of 3 managed to take on one of the Careers. . . .”

“Wow. Wow. I can’t believe what we just saw,” Caligula says. “That was phenomenal. Easiest the best fight we’ve seen so far. I think there is more to our District 5 boy than meets the eye, don’t you think so, Janice?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “But you know what this means? We have reached our Top Eight—”

No sooner does she say that than I receive a notification on my phone:

> ELIJAH ASHER. PLEASE REPORT TO 1953 PARADISE ROAD AT 7:00 PM FOR YOUR TOP EIGHT INTERVIEW.

So this is it. The interview that I said that I would do. Despite the heaviness in my body and the emptiness in my brain, I have to pull myself together enough to get this done. I _have_ to. I can’t think about dying avoxes or killing squirrels or being put through useless ‘tests.’ I can’t think about the fact that I’m supposed to be in some stranger’s bed tonight. I can’t think about trying to secure sponsorships for James.

I need to think about how I’m going to handle this interview and everything that it entails.

The interview won’t start for another couple of hours, so I have time to brainstorm. I should have done this quite some time ago since we have been teetering on the brink of the Top Eight interviews for several days now, but with everything going on, it slipped out of focus. Yet sitting here on the couch, I can’t think at all. My jumbled brain is packed full of thoughts but none of them are anything worthwhile.

Okay. Fine. I reach over to the armrest of the couch and grasp onto it firmly. The action provides me enough stability that I can think a little more rationally, if only briefly. And with that small half second of clarity, I make my decision to keep moving. This time in the direction of the exercise room where I can do what Harmony says I’m supposed to do: work out my emotions. And maybe while doing that, I can perhaps clear my head enough to figure out how to handle this upcoming interview.

But James. . . . The first death by a tribute since the bloodbath. Certainly all eyes will be on him tonight. Certainly people will want to know more.

_He actually has a chance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That moment when you fumble for a throw-away name and decide that the character is going to be Sedimentary Rock because why not. Can you imagine being named something that dumb? (And then some reader is inevitably like, "Hey, that's my name!")


	35. Chapter 35

“This is just so special, Elijah,” Caligula says when I reach the set. He clasps me on the shoulder and squeezes it in some meaningless gesture. “It’s not very often we interview a mentor for the Top Eight.”

And by ‘not very often,’ he means that the only time that happens is when the tribute is the mentor’s family. Which occurs more frequently than is statistically appropriate, but still isn’t ‘that often’ in the grand scheme of things.

“It’s an honor,” I manage.

Caligula laughs. “For the both of us,” he says. “Now, this will be live, but there is no audience with us here today. Let’s go over what’s on the set. . . .”

He guides me over towards the set, talking about the layout and how many cameras there are and giving me general guidance to fill in the gaps that I’m missing by having no vision. It would come across as a kind thing to do except that I have no desire to be here right now and am only present because I live in a society that enjoys torturing people for fun.

I get settled in a large chair that isn’t quite a couch but could fit two people comfortably, three if they squeezed in. Yet here it’s only me, and even though I’ve sat on many pieces of furniture made for multiple people, for some reason being here right now in this oversized armchair makes me long for the company of somebody else. Despite Caligula and the crew, despite the cameras. . . . I am so very much alone.

“You comfortable?” Caligula asks.

“Yes,” I nod.

“Great,” he says. “Let’s get started.”

There’s the usual countdown, and then the interviewer launches into his introduction: “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen! I’m with you today with our very own Elijah Asher, victor of the 133rd Hunger Games, who has joined us for the Top Eight interviews! . . . Now Elijah, this is a completely unusual situation to have a mentor present instead of family for a Top Eight interview. Can you please put this into a bit of context for our viewers at home?”

“Yes. Um. James Faraday, my tribute, reached the Top Eight earlier today when he killed the District 2 male, Sed,” I begin, choosing my words very carefully. “I’m here in lieu of his family who was not able to make it.”

“I should clarify for the audience that James is a foster kid and doesn’t have a proper family,” Caligula says to the cameras. “So Elijah has been kind enough to help us out.”

Doesn’t have a ‘proper family.’ What the hell is this guy’s problem? Is he really that stupid that he doesn’t realize he needs to phrase things carefully or it’ll throw my tribute’s chances? Or is he well aware and pretends that he’s oblivious?

“Now, Elijah, I think that we were all a little surprised about what happened earlier today,” he says. “Surprised but, I should add, not unhappy. Can you explain what you were thinking when James killed Sed?”

Emptiness?

Complete nothingness?

I’m going to buy some time. Top Eight interviews are never very long because they have to showcase all eight tributes with relative fairness. Sometimes kids with larger families get more spotlight, but there’s still a distinct time range that the interview has to fall in to make room for everyone. The elderly viewers and the little kids at home have a bedtime they have to stick to, so you can’t have the show going on too late at night.

“This afternoon, James and Maggie came across the District 2 male, Sed,” I say. “Contrary to what most people would have anticipated, James killed the other tribute. I can’t say I am surprised, however. Don’t underestimate him.”

“Very different from his 3 in training,” Caligula comments.

“Yes,” I agree. “What he showed in the training room wasn’t something that demonstrated his suite of skills. I mean, we’ve already witnessed that he can fight very well, and without weapons, but he is good at survival, he can work together with his ally, and he just has a good head on his shoulders.”

“That is very true,” Caligula murmurs. But then he says, “Now something has recently come up, and I think it would be good if we had this addressed: James has a criminal record. He’s been arrested for fighting. He has been suspended from various schools and even expelled from one. He hasn’t been able to stay in a foster home for very long. I ask this on behalf of the viewers: Why should anyone support a kid who has no regard for the law?”

Shit.

Damn.

I draw in a deep breath. I have to do this for James. I need to pull together the scattered ideas that I’ve come up with over the past two weeks and paste them together into something worthwhile. Have to make this a good interview. No, the _best_. Because James’ life depends on this.

“James has had a vastly different experience than most people,” I tell Caligula. “I can probably assume that most of us had a pretty stable home growing up, but James didn’t have that opportunity. He, um, he got into fights because he had to; it was part of survival growing up without that stability. You know kids, being the little shits they are, will pick on anybody who’s different than them. That’s what happened with James. He was different, he didn’t have a ‘family’ in the same way that the others did, so they honed in on him. So he did what he had to do in order to survive. Yes, he broke the law, but it wasn’t because of a complete disregard for it but because he didn’t have the stability he needed.

“But I think more important than James’ past is his future. See, we build our futures in the present, but the foundation is in the past. James’ foundation is different from ours, but it’s clear that the future he is building utilizes the skills he’s developed through his life. He’s resourceful, he’s clever, and he learns quickly. He has been arrested, sure, but he was also fourteen years old and in a turbulent period of his life. I’m sure you remember what it was like to be fourteen, Caligula; it probably wasn’t the best part of your life, either. But despite the challenges he faced, he was able to keep his grades up (as you pointed out once) and he has determination to pull himself out of the life that was given to him and make something of his future.

“And I think the Hunger Games gives him that opportunity. To make something of himself. To use the things his past has taught him and make a good future. He has the skills, he has the drive, and he’s a pretty damned good kid to boot. Very polite and respectful. Very keen and aware of his surroundings. He’s a good tribute, and he’ll be an even better victor.”

Caligula doesn’t answer right away. The spiel I gave has stunned the interviewer. In most cases, he’s lucky to get three coherent sentences out of me, and here I have given him several decent paragraphs to work with. My body aches from holding itself upright for this interview, and I wish to slouch down and disappear into the cushions, but the adrenaline keeps me from vanishing into the upholstery.

“So you think that what he’s gone through is actually giving him an advantage?” he asks.

“In a manner of speaking, but only in some aspects,” I say. “The things that James brings to the arena are different than what the other tributes bring, right? That’s why people find it interesting.”

“Very true,” he agrees. “But what about the fact that he won’t have anyone to celebrate the Hunger Games with if he wins?”

“Does it matter?” I ask, unable to contain the irritation. I swallow hard and continue a little more evenly, “As I recall, there were a lot of people who celebrated the Hunger Games besides my family: friends, classmates, the community. Hell, the entire country, if you want to be honest.”

“Yes, we’re definitely going to celebrate with him if he’s our victor. But another thing that’s going around is that there are some people who are saying that if he dies, it won’t make a difference,” Caligula says. “Nobody will miss him, so the title of victor should go to another tribute with family.”

I hate this. I hate them all. I hate Caligula and his stupid questions. Why the hell does it matter if he has family to celebrate with or not? Why does any of this matter?

I channel that hatred into a fire whose burning keeps me alive at this moment. All thoughts of sponsors and squirrels disappear, and I churn through my thoughts in the briefest seconds where I locate a snippet of memory. Something that I can utilize to our advantage. Something that will give the viewers at home that little hook that they need to keep them interested in James.

“He has a brother back home in District 5 who is eager to meet up with him,” I say calmly like I’m not just pulling this out of my ass. The foundation of the lie is truth—he does have a brother, after all—but the rest is utter bullshit. “There were some issues with the system that kept them apart, but winning the Hunger Games will provide them the chance to meet.”

Caligula draws in a breath then says with eagerness, “A brother back home? And they’ve never met?”

“No,” I say, not sure if it’s the lie or the truth. But as I was once told, it doesn’t matter what the truth is, and it doesn’t matter what people back home in District 5 are thinking about this. The important thing is that the Capitol viewers get their drama. “I think winning the Hunger Games will give James and his brother the perfect chance to catch up.”

“That is so exciting!” Caligula says. “Wow, that will make for a wonderful reunion. To meet your long-long lost brother after so many years is one thing, but to be a victor as well?”

Good. He’s going with it.

And it’s in that moment that I realize that Caligula’s questions, cruel though they were, were not delivered with malice. He had no desire to hurt James or me. He was merely letting me address the same questions that I had heard repeated in the past few days, this time with the ability to answer them clearly and professionally. Now no one in the Capitol could question James’ worthiness without wondering if perhaps they were wrong. Realizing that Caligula’s questions were meant as a tool more than a weapon causes the anger in me to wane. In its absence, the emptiness threatens to take over. I grasp at the fire, trying to build it up so that I don’t lose it entirely and collapse into a heap.

“I imagine it will be an interesting reunion,” I agree somewhat weakly. I clear my throat and continue, “James’ past might not be like ours, but it won’t matter once he’s victor. He has a good future ahead of him between victory and catching up with his brother.”

“Well said,” Caligula says. “Thank you so much for joining us today, Elijah. That’s all the time we have now, but we appreciate that you fit us into your busy schedule.”

I nod. “Thanks for having me,” I say.

“You’re very welcome,” he says happily. Then he says to his cameras, “Thank you all for joining us. If you have other questions, I encourage you to reach out to me for future interviews.”


	36. Chapter 36

The cab driver is silent as she drives me through the city towards Iset’s house. I’m arriving later than Iset wanted, but I have no doubt that she saw the interview and knows what’s up. Exhaustion pulls me down, and I slump in the backseat of the cab and lean my head against the door.

I can’t think. Not that I don’t want to, but I _can’t_. It’s like my thoughts are now so tangled together and so full inside my skull that there’s not space to start picking at the knots to pull things apart and make sense of it all. Apprehension eats away at me, yet I can’t understand why I have this gnawing sensation in my chest. I hope that Iset will just let me go to sleep tonight; I hope that she’ll see how exhausted I am.

The cab comes to a stop and I halfheartedly thank the driver as I pull myself together and open the door. The cool night air greets me, and I vaguely remember Harmony once telling me that I needed to get more sunshine and fresh air, but all of that happened in a completely different time in a completely different world. Now in the present, I walk with as much confidence as I can muster to the front door of Iset’s place and knock firmly.

The door opens with a creak, and Iset says, “Hey, Elijah. Good to see you again.”

“Yeah, same,” I say.

She hesitates. “You okay?” she asks.

“Tired,” I answer.

“Alright, come in,” she says.

My cane moves before me, and I step inside the apartment. She shuts the door and then I feel her hand on my arm.

“Would you like anything to eat?” she asks.

I shake my head even though I can’t remember the last time I had a proper meal. Was it this morning at breakfast? Had I eaten nothing since then? Shit, I’m really failing at this, aren’t I?

“C’mon, Elijah, at least have a cup of tea,” she says. Without waiting for a reply (not that she’d get anything of great note), she guides me away from the entryway towards the kitchen. I comply as she gently pushes me into a chair at the counter, possibly the same one I sat in this morning, and I set the cane against the chair next to me. It clatters to the floor, but I can’t be arsed to pick it up.

As she moves about the kitchen, she chatters about what she’s been up to today, but for the life of me, I can’t follow along with what she’s saying. Has it really only been one day—mere hours—since the last time we were together? Did we really have breakfast in this very kitchen this morning? And all the things she talks about here, all the stupid shit she did to keep herself occupied when there was nothing of interest occurring in the arena aside from James’ kill, all of that is just complete and utter garbage. What was I doing in the meantime? Being emotionally manipulated by a psychopath who wanted me to kill an avox and ended up murdering her when I was unable to do so? Watching my tribute nearly get himself killed so that he could be one step closer to returning to a warm bed? Forcing myself through an interview for all of Panem where I had to convince an entire country not to write off a kid for death just because he had no family?

God, no wonder I’m so exhausted. No wonder I can barely function.

Something clunks on the counter in front of me and I jump. Iset apologizes for startling me, and I tell her that it’s not a problem. Obviously it is, and she sets the next item down more carefully.

“I gave you a mug of tea, and also some dinner,” she says. “I know you said you weren’t hungry, but there’s some stew there for you if you want it.”

It takes me a moment to gather the strength to move my hands around the counter, but when I do I find a warm mug and an equally warm bowl. She clarifies that the spoon is in the bowl already, and without another word, I begin to eat.

“I saw your interview, by the way,” she says as she sits down in the chair across from me. “It was good.”

“Thanks,” I say between bites.

She pauses again. I think she might expect more out of me than these meager responses I’ve given her, but all my words have been sucked away in the interview. I have nothing left.

So she continues talking in my silence and I barely taste the stew that I eat, but I’m grateful for the food regardless. I listen to the clinking of the spoon against the bowl more than I do her words. The rhythmic tapping is somewhat soothing.

When I finish eating, Iset leads me down the hallway and into her room. We pause by the bed, and this time I don’t fight it as she unbuttons my shirt. I shrug out of it and she takes it away from me and says she’s putting it on the chair again. I remove my shoes and set them near the bed where I’ll find them in the morning.

“And your pants?” she says.

“Pardon?” I ask sleepily.

“It’s probably not comfortable sleeping in them,” she comments.

“I—” But I can’t finish my thought. If she wants them off, they’re going to come off, and I have no energy to try to figure out a way to get her to let me keep my pants on. This is so messed up.

Her hand strokes my cheek and trails down along my jaw. I wince when she touches the tender area where Vespasianus hit me earlier. Ugh, I forgot all about that. But the bruise that’s hidden beneath my beard is a reminder that what happened earlier today was real and not some feverish nightmare I conjured up in a desperate attempt to sleep.

“It’s okay, Elijah,” she says. I don’t know what she means by that because nothing is okay, but then I feel her hands down around my waist unbuckling my belt. I am way too damned tired for this. Once the buckle is out of the way, she unbuttons the button. Yet when her fingers begin to work on the zipper, something inside me kicks into gear and I stagger backwards a step.

“I can do it,” I say quickly. And to prove that I can, I finish unzipping my pants and I take them off. It takes a weird amount of effort not to fall over in the process. Before I can stand there dumbly with my pants in my hand, Iset takes them off of me and says that she’ll set them with my shirt. Alright.

With that, I climb into bed.

Iset joins me and once again nestles up against me.

“I know you’re really tired, but it’s too early for me to go to sleep,” she says. “I hope you’re okay if I watch television.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say.

She moves away long enough to turn on the television and adjust the volume to her preference, and then she is back against me again. Her warmth is comforting in a way that I don’t even want to think about.

Her fingers run through my hair, and she murmurs, “Shhh, it’s okay. Just get some sleep.” Her whispers entice me to relax, and what can I do but comply. As her fingers work through my hair, my body gives into the weariness, and I find myself leaning into her as I move into her warm embrace.

A heavy hand shakes my shoulder, and the suddenness of it causes me to recoil. I sit up in confusion and fear. My chest aches with the pounding of my heart, and the noise nearly swallows me up. It takes several long seconds to realize that the darkness that surrounds me is my own blindness, and no lamp will ever shed enough light to chase away the nightmares.

“Elijah?”

“Wh-where?”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Iset. Her apartment. Her bed. “You were having a nightmare.”

I reach out and my hand lands on a thick pillow. I press down and allow myself to feel the soft fabric underneath my palm. My other hand goes to the silken sheets and I twist my fingers up in them as I try to ground myself back in reality.

Reality?

Are my nightmares not reality?

Are not the things that haunt my mind reflections of what I’ve done?

I try to shake off the sensation that I’m being tested again, that this is part of Vespasianus’ obstacle course full of squirrels and avoxes, but the sensation barely dissipates. I might be here in this room, but for all intents and purposes, I am still back in the Qmart with the knife in my hand and the crying avox in front of me.

“Elijah, it’s okay,” Iset says.

I want to believe her. When her hands touch my shoulders, I allow myself to focus on their warmth. That’s real. She draws me closer to her in an embrace. Also real. Warm. I lean my head on her shoulder and close my eyes. Her hair smells vaguely of flowers. Can’t place which ones. Just this floral scent that’s not unpleasant. I inhale. Am I weird for smelling her hair like this? I don’t care. It’s here. Present.

She holds me tightly, her arms clamped around me. Slowly, ever so slowly, I begin to come back down to reality. It’s an arduous descent, and I wonder if I will ever make it.

Then Iset’s lips are on mine. Their warmth, their presence, draws me closer to where I need to be. I kiss her in return. I am here. Yes. Here. Our lips don’t part. Even as I find reality. Even when I know where I am. Even when I know what I’m doing. I can’t leave her. I can’t pull away from her. I need this. In a way. I don’t want it, but I need it. And the longer we kiss, the bolder Iset grows. Her hands move along my body, but the moment she tugs at my underwear, I freeze.

“I can’t,” I manage, pulling away from her lips. “Please—I can’t.”

She hesitates, but at last her hand leaves my waist. She slides back into the sheets and pulls me with her so that our heads are once again on the pillow.

“You need to get to sleep,” she whispers. “It’s okay.” Her lips return to mine, but only briefly.

I want to tell her no, that I’ll never sleep again, and yet I find my eyes closing. This time, I curl up against her and she rubs my back. I drift into sleep again.

Once more, I wake up in the morning uncertain where I am, but well rested. It takes less time to realize where I am. I close my eyes to see if I can catch a little more sleep, and my hand checks both my watch and my tribute tracker. James and Maggie are doing fine and—shit. It’s after nine and I have to go to therapy. Careful not to disturb Iset, I start to sit up to leave.

“You are a very sound sleeper,” she says from my side. “I was wondering when you’d be awake.”

“Oh, um. Didn’t realize you had woken up,” I say. “I need to leave and—”

“Is there really a rush?” she asks as she pulls me back down and kisses me.

“Iset, I’m really sorry,” I say when I manage to break away from her lips. “But I have an appointment to go to.”

“An appointment? With someone else?” she asks with disappointment.

“Yes, it’s a routine—Oh. No, not _that_ sort of appointment,” I catch myself.

She’s jealous that I might be forced to go sleep with someone else? What the hell? Does she not realize that the fact that I am in her bed right now is because I have had my free will stripped away from me? It’s that same lack of free will that would require me to go to an ‘appointment’ with another person. Surely as daughter of a gamemaker she must know that, right?

“You’ll come back here tonight though, won’t you?” she asks.

I hesitate. Finally I say, “If you would like me to.”

“Then come by at—no, actually, just come whenever you can,” she says.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. “But I do have to leave.”

She lets me go then. I grab my clothes and head to the bathroom. How much _does_ Iset know? Does she understand that I can’t say no? She seems to be an okay person (I’m not sure if I can really use the term ‘decent’ here) but it’s hard to tell. Does she think I’m interested in her? Does she know that I’m not? I don’t know what happened in the middle of the night and why I so easily gave into her kiss, but I know that it sure as hell didn’t do much to convince her that I don’t want to pursue this relationship further.

I pull on my clothes and freshen up so I won’t walk in on my therapy appointment a complete mess. When I’m somewhat confident that I don’t look like I’ve just woken up in the wrong bed, I step out of the bathroom and return to the side of the bed to put on my shoes and grab my cane.

“You want breakfast before you leave?” she asks.

I hesitate, but eventually say, “Thanks, but I really need to get going.”

She trails after me out the bedroom and to the front door. Before I can leave, her hand touches my arm gently, lingering for a few moments.

“I’ll see you later,” she says. “Thanks for coming by.”

“Yeah, you’re welcome,” I answer.

She drops her hand away and kisses my cheek.


	37. Chapter 37

It’s been seven days that the tributes are in the arena. The snow, though thick, no longer hinders them. All of the tributes, the remaining eight, wander through the arena searching for something. Someone. Whoever they can get their hands on to kill. Seven days, and they’re ready to go home.

I pause the narration when I get to Harmony’s place. He doesn’t leave me standing but a few seconds on the front porch, and then once again he welcomes me in. His enthusiasm for seeing me is far greater than mine for being here, but I say nothing to reveal that I’d rather be slumped on the couch watching my tribute without interruption. Not that there would be a point in doing that; I can control nothing and my monitoring device would alert me if something happens to James regardless of where I am.

“Elijah?” comes Harmony’s voice.

“Hmm?”

“Care to join me in the other room?” he asks.

Oh. Did I just blank out while standing near the door? Damn.

But I follow after his voice and he leads me to the sitting room where once again we take our chairs.

“How is it going?” he asks me.

“Well I just spaced out within half a second of walking in the front door, so maybe that is an indication,” I say.

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asks.

I shake my head. At this point, I’m not sure if anything that’s happened since I’ve last seen Harmony really makes any sense; it will likely just make me sound crazy. A strange man offered me money to run through an obstacle course in an abandoned department store? Then he wanted me to kill somebody only to kill her himself when I declined? What about any of that sounds even remotely sane?

“I, um, I went to the exercise room. Twice,” I say.

“And how did that go?” he asks.

“I didn’t hurt myself,” I respond.

“What about your meals?” he asks. “Any luck with ensuring that you’re eating more regularly?”

“I think I might be,” I say. “But honestly everything’s been a bit of a blur.”

“Sleeping?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. But I hesitate. I’m sleeping better in the bed of a stranger. Hell, she’s the reason I’m eating better, too. The fact that she’s helping me keep on track, even inadvertently, makes me uncomfortable. It’s not something I want to talk about right now. I pick at a loose thread in the fabric of the armrest.

After a moment of silence, Harmony stands up and once more walks me through the thing with the scrambler to ensure that the room isn’t bugged and to muffle the signal even if it was. Then, again, he has me hold onto the device as we proceed with the session. I know he’s doing it to make me more comfortable with the situation so that I won’t be afraid to talk with him, yet I don’t think that the things that are on my mind can be brought up right now. Maybe in another couple of years, but to share with Harmony about Iset or Vespasianus when they’re still ‘fresh’ could cause more harm than good; hell it might even put Harmony in danger for knowing these things.

When it becomes clear that I’m not going to be bringing up anything new, Harmony gets me talking about the past. This is ‘safe.’ It’s what has already happened, and the only person who is incriminated is Solar. Although Harmony has to coax me to participate in today’s therapy session at first, the more I talk, the more I forget, even if temporarily, about James. It allows me to be somewhat more present and engaged. I’m not sure I’m in a good mental place to really accept all the things Harmony has to say about the things that have happened to me, but at least I’m part of the conversation.

“Elijah, I know it is hard,” he says once we hit a roadblock of pure stubbornness. “But you can’t hold yourself responsible for everything that happened to you. Yes, you were there and you were present, but that doesn’t mean that all events that you were involved in were your fault.”

And so it goes. And endless cycle of Harmony trying to get through to me and me finding some reason or another to reject whatever he says. Although these things might look good on paper, they’re something I just can’t accept. Maybe one day, but not right now. Though as the session progresses onward, I begin to wonder if I will _ever_ be able to not just see things from Harmony’s point of view but get on board with his logic. Can I forgive myself for the shit I did in the past if I’m doing more things of equal shittiness in the present? Doesn’t that kind of negate the point of forgiveness?

I leave Harmony’s place feeling uneasy and uncomfortable. Not all therapy sessions go well, I know, but this one seemed like it was just a giant waste of time, and now that I’m out in the light of day, I can’t help but wonder what I missed in the past hour. My fingers feel my monitoring device and tell me that James is still doing okay, but it’s not good enough. Nor is hearing the live feed through my headphones on the car ride back to the Training Center. It’s only when I’m in front of the television that I can finally relax the slightest.

And yet I find myself standing up and pacing once it’s clear that there’s nothing particularly noteworthy occurring in the arena.

I want to call Marie, I realize suddenly. I shuffle back to the couch to find my phone, but I stop myself before I even have a chance to search for it. How the hell can I face Marie knowing the company I’ve been keeping in her absence? What an utter betrayal. Shit.

I take a deep breath, but it does nothing.

It takes considerable focus to return to my room and change into exercise pants and a t-shirt, and then I allow myself to move on almost-autopilot to navigate down through the Training Center corridors to reach the exercise room. For nearly an hour, I try to work out the extra energy, but in the end I feel more drained than before and just as restless. A shower doesn’t help (they don’t ever seem to these days), but I finally get over myself enough to call my wife.

 _“Hey, Eli,”_ she says when she answers. I can’t tell if she’s happy to hear from me or not, but then I realize that it’s because I was only paying attention to what she said and not how she said it. I try to convince myself to focus, but it’s damned hard.

“Hi, love, how are you?” I ask.

 _“Fine, thanks,”_ she replies. She knows better than to ask me how I’m doing, so instead she says, _“I was thinking of you and I’m glad you called. It’s good to hear from you.”_

“Yeah, sorry I didn’t call sooner. I’ve been busy,” I tell her.

 _“I know,”_ she says. _“I didn’t want to disturb you.”_

“Shit, disturb me any time,” I mutter.

She laughs at that. A whole, happy laugh. But she cuts it off quickly as though she’s not supposed to show any sign of happiness in this dark time, and she clears her throat.

“What’s been going on at home?” I ask.

Marie pauses for a moment, and I know she’s constructing something to tell me about the neutral things in life. Maybe even the good things, if there are any. Once she has her story wrung dry of all the shit she’s dealt with over the past two weeks, she begins to talk about how Marty has been following her around the house so much and she thought that they were just good friends but it turns out that she’s been inadvertently dropping food more than she realized. And she’s pretty sure that George is dating somebody but he won’t admit to it, and she said something to Grandpa who just told her to mind her own business.

“He didn’t say that,” I interrupt.

 _“He pretty much did,”_ she says. And then she continues on talking about how she’s considering hiring a gardener to plant some flowers in the front yard and she hopes that it’s okay if she does that while I’m gone (to which I tell her yes, of course). I curl up on the couch as I listen to her ramble about things that have no great consequence.

But her words do nothing to comfort me, I realize. I don’t want this pasteurized version of reality. I want to know what is actually going on. What Marie’s been dealing with. How conversations with George and Grandpa really went. We’re telling ourselves lies here, and I’ve had enough of these things in my short stay in the Capitol. I want to know Marie’s truth. And yet . . . I can’t say anything to her about it. These stories that she’s telling me are helping hold her together, too. How could I rip that security out from underneath her when there’s nothing else that’s getting her through the day?

_“Elijah?”_

“Hmm?”

_“How are you holding up? I mean, really?”_

“I’m doing okay,” I say.

She doesn’t respond, and I know that she knows that I’m lying. But she knows better than to—

 _“It’s the seventh day, and you always get a little . . . upset around now,”_ she says quietly. _“You’re not, um. . . .”_ She hesitates, her voice trailing off.

“Completely wasted?” I finish for her.

 _“I was going to say ‘drunk,’ but that works, too,”_ she says dryly.

“Nope, this year I’ve managed to make it without any alcohol,” I say. “Then again, this is also the first year I’ve had a tribute make it past the first few days.”

 _“Okay, well, you know I don’t mind if you drink, but please don’t get drunk again,”_ she says. _“It kind of scares me. So, I know you might get upset, but just—”_

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her. “I won’t drink.”

What I don’t say to her, though, is that I’ll likely be doing things that would make her far more upset than drunk calling her when life get a bit too difficult to handle. I squeeze the pillow in my arms and try not to think about it.

And yet, I am thinking about it. I’m thinking that sooner or later I’m going to have to go to Iset’s place for the evening, and this time I don’t have an interview to use an excuse for my late arrival. Sure, I could waste some more time before I go over, but I don’t know what’s going on with Iset and I have no clue if arriving later than she wants me to will piss her off. I wish I understood her expectations of me and how she factors into James’ future, so to speak.

“I have to go, love,” I say at last. “But I love you and I hope you have a good evening.”

 _“I love you, too,”_ she says. _“And Elijah, you can call me at any time, okay?”_

“Yes, of course.”


	38. Chapter 38

I arrive at Iset’s shortly after dinner and am surprised to find that I’m not the only person there besides Iset. Her disgusting brother Rameses is present and, to my dismay, so is Lady. Still in his services, it seems. And even worse, Solar is here; she’s with a ‘date,’ a man by the name of Secundus; he must be the most recent person she’s entertaining.

I have just walked into the absolute worst dinner party known to man.

After Iset does the ‘introductions’ (though the only person she really has to formally introduce is Secundus), she beckons me to sit on the couch with her. I follow her as instructed and take my seat.

It seems that I arrived in the middle of some story or another Rameses is telling, and once I’m settled in, they get right back into the heat of things. It’s a little hard to follow along since I jumped in the middle. Iset is somewhere between ashamed and amused by whatever escapade he’s talking about while Solar is cracking up and Secundus is encouraging the storytelling. Lady remains silent. She didn’t even greet me when I came in, and I can only guess as to where she’s located in the room right now. Near Rameses, of course.

“So, Elijah, your tribute pulled off a pretty neat trick yesterday,” Rameses says.

“You can call it a trick, sure,” I say. “But it was pretty badass.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the training score was a product of him hiding his abilities,” the man says. He sounds so cocky and arrogant. So smooth and charming. I wonder about Lady and how she’s handling all this. Certainly, she has had to figure out how to tolerate him after the past few days. Does he take her silence as acceptance? Does he have his arm wrapped around her in some possessive gesture to make sure she doesn’t escape from him? Is she straining to hold herself together? Or is she so beaten down by it all that she has nothing to say, no opinion to form, no reason to want to be away from his slimy grasp?

“You tell me,” I answer.

Calm down, I order myself. I hadn’t even realized that I was starting to get worked up. But my heartrate has increased and it’s becoming more challenging to keep my tongue under control.

“Geeze, Elijah,” Solar laughs. “You’ve been locked away _far_ too long by yourself in the Training Center.” She addresses the others as she continues, “I’ve been trying to tell him to get out and enjoy himself a little more, but he’s so serious about it and insists on being in the District 5 apartment at all hours.”

“Too much work,” Secundus agrees. “You need to relax a little more, my friend.”

Friend? Nobody here is my friend. Except Lady and she, like me, isn’t here because she wants to be.

“Oh, I think Iset will work her magic on him yet,” Solar answers. “Honestly, Eli, have some fun.”

I manage to stop myself before I open my mouth again because what is about to come out isn’t pretty and I know that I must keep my thoughts to myself at all costs. Nothing about this is fun. Somewhere within me, I know that Solar knows that and she’s only saying these things for the sake of the other people in the room, but the anger still saturates me to the core. Our tributes are dying, and she tells me to have fun.

“Of course,” Iset answers. Then she says to me, “Have you had dinner yet?”

I hesitate. I don’t want to eat in front of all of these people. Although I’ve gotten better at dining in public over the last couple years, it’s still something I proceed with cautiously. Iset correctly interprets my hesitation as a ‘no,’ and she says, “C’mon, let’s go to the kitchen.”

She stands up, so I follow after her.

If I understand the layout of the house well enough, a wall separates the kitchen from the sitting room that we were just in. However, I can’t guarantee that there’s no window or cut-out in this wall that allows the people in the other room to see us in here, so there’s no way I can do anything that might give away my disdain for the situation or the people in the other room. It concerns me, I realize with a start, that my initial reaction is that I can trust Iset to know how much I dislike the others even if not through spoken word.

“Thanks,” I say. “I didn’t have a chance to eat before I came. Sorry I missed dinner.”

“Hey, it’s not a problem,” she says with a smile. “We had filet mignon and potatoes. I’ve been keeping a plate warm for you.”

I sit down at one of the chairs and, true to her word, Iset has a plate ready for me right away. She offers me the wine they paired with it, but I decline. As I eat, she talks about her day and the shopping trip she and Rameses went on at the mall and how there were so many people there and she and her brother got special access to the stores so they didn’t have to mingle with the crowds. Such a snob, but the way she says it makes it seem like this treatment is expected. Not like she’s manipulating the shopkeepers or demanding special benefits but like it’s something she has always had in life and knows no differently. When I finish eating, I barely have time to set my fork on my plate before she whisks it away and clatters about in the kitchen.

“Did you make dinner?” I ask.

“No, Rameses and Lady did,” she says. “It’s so good that my brother met her. I can already see what a positive effect she’s having on him.”

. . . What?

I swallow hard to fight the nausea that threatens to return my dinner. Lady having a good effect on Rameses? What the hell is Iset’s issue? Is she delusional, or does she intentionally lie to herself?

“That’s . . . good,” I say.

“Well, he’s not been the sort to settle down with someone for more than a night or two, if you know what I mean,” she says. “So it’s nice that they found each other.”

That’s because most people can just escape from him! Pressure builds up in my head, and I wonder if I’m about to launch into a migraine right here and now. I want to scream to relieve myself of it all, and yet I somehow manage to keep quiet. Lady is _required_ to stay with Rameses. If she doesn’t, someone dies. Maybe her tribute, maybe a family member. She has no choice but to do whatever he tells her.

Instead of acknowledging her statement, I stand up and make a bit of a show that I’m trying to find my cane so that it’s not completely obvious that I’m ignoring her. Iset swoops over and snatches up my cane from right where I left it and hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say.

Rather than stepping back a reasonable distance, she moves right into my personal space and wraps her arms around my neck.

“Thanks for coming over tonight. I enjoy spending time with you,” she says, leaning in closely. And then she’s kissing me again, and after a brief startled pause, I kiss her back as she draws me closer against her. I try to look like I’m willingly participating in this, and maybe I’m pulling it off, but I’m distracted as soon as I hear a third voice in the kitchen.

“Nice, but save it for the bedroom,” Solar says with amusement.

I pull away from Iset. Nothing to make an unwanted kiss worse than to be watched by an unwanted third party.

But Solar’s presence doesn’t bother Iset at all. She still has her arms wrapped around me and she laughs lightly and says, “Don’t worry. We’ll take it away from here if it gets too steamy for you.”

“Just don’t let him tell you that you don’t need protection,” Solar warns. She drops her voice and says like I’m not even there, “He’s not a fan of condoms.”

“What the hell?!” I demand.

Iset regards Solar’s ‘warning’ with seriousness and says, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Solar leaves the room then. I don’t know what she was doing in the kitchen to begin with. Maybe if I could see, I would have noticed her grabbing another wine bottle or sneaking a cookie off a plate or something, but I don’t care; I know that she wandered in here with the sole purpose of making me miserable even if she didn’t know how she’d pull it off. Seeing me with Iset was just too good to be true, I’m sure, and provided her a great source for fuel.

But then Iset’s mouth is back on mine and whatever discomfort I felt before is multiplied a hundredfold. I break away our kiss and pause for a second to catch my breath before I manage to say, “You know, I just ate and I really prefer to brush my teeth.”

Iset laughs and kisses me on the cheek. “Well I guess we’ll save this for later then,” she says. “C’mon before the others wonder where we went.”

Yeah because I’m sure that Solar hasn’t told them all already. Probably the first thing she did when she went back to the other room. But I follow after Iset as she steps away from me and goes back into the other room where we take our seats once again. If Solar said anything, the others don’t mention it, at least not right away. They’re talking about the shopping trip that Iset and Rameses went on, though to hear it from Rameses’ perspective, it was an entirely different experience. Maybe I’d find it funny if I didn’t hate him so much.

The evening passes with chitchat about people’s lives (mostly the Capitol citizens; the lives of us victors isn’t held in quite so much interest because how can you make mentoring really that exciting?), and of course there’s alcohol, which I abstain from because if there’s one thing I can do in my wife’s best interest tonight, it’s at least to respect her wishes where I can. It almost makes me feel like I can make a decision for myself.

Finally Secundus says, “Well, Solar and I better head out.”

“It was a lovely evening,” she adds.

The two of them stand up, the couch sighing with the sudden release of weight. Iset jumps to her feet to see them to the door.

“See you later, Elijah,” says Solar with just a touch too much sweetness. I don’t answer her, and no one really cares because they’re all heading out of the room towards the entryway. Rameses goes with them, too, for I hear his voice drift out of the room. I listen to them laugh and say their goodbyes and make promises to meet up at whatever day and whatever time.

My attention is drawn away from them when I become acutely aware of the heavy breathing of someone else in the room.

“Lady?” I say.

There’s a suppressed sniffle and then she says, “Yes?”

“Can I get you anything?”

“What I need you can’t get me,” she says bitterly.

“I know,” I answer quietly. Because there is absolutely no way I can free Lady from this shitty situation, especially not when I can’t even free myself. She needs help, and I need help, and no one will ever be able to provide to us what we need.

So we sit in silence and wait for our respective ‘dates’ to return from saying goodbye to Solar and Secundus. Lady manages to collect herself well enough that by the time Iset and Rameses step back into the room, her breathing is more even and she no longer sounds a half second away from bursting into tears.

“Elijah and I will take care of the dishes,” Iset says. “Since you two made dinner.”

“Thank you for dinner, by the way,” I say in an attempt to be polite about something this evening.

“You’re welcome,” Rameses replies. “Glad you could make it.”

Maybe Lady murmurs something, too, (I think I can almost hear a word or two).

“Now this evening was great, but I think Lady and I will retire for the night,” Rameses says easily like he’s not about to do what he’s about to do.

“Yes, goodnight,” Lady says respectfully. To her credit, she manages to hold herself together pretty well. The two of them stand up and head out of the room.

Iset wishes them goodnight, and then we are left very much alone in their absence. I wonder what will become of Lady and me over the years. We aren’t as desirable as some victors, but even this one Hunger Games is chewing away at us and leaving behind fragments of ourselves as we try to pretend that we’re okay going to bed with these people. And Solar. . . . What does she have to do with this? It’s hard to believe that the fact that Iset has taken interest in me is mere coincidence, not with knowing that Solar’s close enough to these two to be invited to their place for an intimate dinner party. And after that comment. . . .

I can’t stand the vacant silence left behind, so I stand up immediately and say to Iset, “Let’s get on with the dishes.”


	39. Chapter 39

It turns out that Iset previously loaded most of the dishes in the dishwasher while I had been eating dinner.

“Rameses didn’t know that I did it already, and I just wanted him to give us our space,” she says as she wraps her arms around my waist and draws me against her. She kisses my neck and murmurs, “You’re much more awake tonight than you were the last couple nights.”

“That happens,” I say lamely. I’m acutely aware of her lips on my skin and her body against mine. My heart pounds and I know she can feel it. Does she think I’m nervous, or excited, or does she not care? Is she misinterpreting my reaction, or does she willingly dismiss it so that she can have what she wants?

And how the hell do I get out of this?

I know there is no way, and yet I can’t help but hope.

“Hey, let me get you a toothbrush,” she says to me. Her hands drop down to mine, and she gives me a small tug to follow her. I oblige, and she leads me into the hallway, through her bedroom, and into the bathroom. She hands me a toothbrush in a plastic package and a cardboard box with a fresh tube of toothpaste.

She leaves me to my own devices, but even though the bathroom door separates us, I can hear her humming to herself as she opens and shuts drawers. I find the switch for the bathroom fan and drown her out before I brush my teeth. I dawdle in the bathroom to avoid going back out with her. In the meantime, I run through my options. Meager though they are, I cling to the possibility that she will give me an out. That she will ask me if I want to have sex with her and then respect the fact that I decline. Any other option either results in me doing what I don’t want to do or everybody I know ending up dead. And even though I know that if I have sex with Iset, it will kill Marie figuratively speaking, at least it won’t be her literal death.

Finally I set the toothbrush and toothpaste to the side and accept the fact that I have to face reality. Mustering all the courage I can manage, I open the door and step out into the bedroom.

“Get comfortable,” Iset says to me as she walks in my direction. “And actually comfortable. I don’t want to find you perched on the edge of the bed. We aren’t strangers anymore.”

I nod, unable to say something to that statement. She brushes by me and I find my way to the bed. For a moment, I consider getting into bed fully clothed, but it’ll only make this into a bigger deal. So I undress and set the clothes aside. The sheets are soft beneath my touch and I carefully lower myself down onto the bed. I know that I won’t be able to achieve any level of comfort here. Still, I do as I did the two nights before and pull the sheets up around me like maybe I am at ease in this situation. I contemplate finding the remote control to turn on the Hunger Games in the hopes that it will distract her, but I know it’s not worth the effort.

Iset returns a couple minutes later and climbs into bed with me. She moves against me and doesn’t waste any time before her lips are back on mine.

“Is what Solar said true?” she asks after a couple of minutes.

“What?” I ask. She smells fresh. Minty like toothpaste, but also clean like she’s just bathed even though she wasn’t gone long enough. Possibly some sort of perfume.

“About you and condoms,” she says with what appears to be genuine concern.

“I think that’s Solar’s sense of humor,” I say.

“So you and she never. . . .”

Oh, c’mon. Be mature and say it, damnit. But she doesn’t complete her sentence. Maybe it’s too nausea-inducing to even get the full sentence out.

“I think she was trying to embarrass me,” I answer flatly.

Iset laughs and lets out a breath of . . . relief?

“Great,” she says. “Because I’m not going to have sex with you without a condom.”

Well shit. I guess that saying I don’t use condoms could have been one way I could have gotten out of it. _Yeah right,_ I tell myself. _She probably would have come up with some other reason to make you do what she wants._

She turns away from me and starts fiddling with something, and then a moment later, a thin, metallic package is pressed into my hand. Crap, okay. As I turn the wrapper over in my hand, it sinks in how real this is.

“Um, Iset, are you sure that this is what you want?” I try. I know that I tread on unstable ground here and I can’t outright deny her this if it’s what she wants. Her father is a gamemaker and one bad word about me to her father could mean James’ sudden demise. “I mean, I’m married, and my wife—”

“Yeah, that doesn’t bother me,” she says. She shuts up any further protestations I might have with her lips on mine. Right, it doesn’t bother _her_ , but maybe it bothers _me_. She draws back and asks, “Is this what you want?”

“Only if it’s what you want,” I answer after a moment’s hesitation.

And it is what she wants, of course. Otherwise why would she have a condom ready?

I wake up in the early hours of the morning. Iset sleeps next to me, her breaths steady and quiet. For several long minutes I lie there and wonder how the hell I’m ever going to live with this, but I know that no matter how overwhelming the situation is right now, I’ll find a way. It might not be healthy, but one way or another, I’ll manage to go on with life. We victors have done terrible things to stay alive, and how is this any different than whatever else we’ve done?

I use this opportunity to check on James. He is fine. Of course he’s fine. I hope to God he stays that way.

Iset wakes up, but just barely, and asks if everything is okay. I tell her that it is, and she says that I need to get back to sleep. She’s right.

That’s the issue, isn’t it? She feeds me, she keeps me on a good sleep schedule, she provides some sort of stability in this tumultuous time. . . . And the fact that she appeared to care for me, and not even on a romantic level but as one human to another, lulled me into a false sense of security. I suppose I knew what was coming all along, even if I didn’t want to believe it. Because I’m a fool. Or, perhaps more appropriately, because I couldn’t avoid it and I had far too many other things to worry about.

Her arm snakes around me and pulls me in. I comply and move closer to her. The worst thing that I could do—the _absolutely worst_ thing—would be to show her how much I hated having sex with her. Not that it was bad, per se, but I had no choice in it. And if I stupidly give away the truth, then she would probably be more furious than had I denied her what she wanted in the first place.

I kiss her gently on the cheek and she nuzzles in against me.

Is this how it goes in the Capitol that even those who appear to be decent people are really terrible individuals?

I close my eyes and tell myself that it doesn’t matter. This is how life is, and I can’t change a damned thing about it. For the first time in days, I’m glad I’m exhausted. Because if I’m exhausted, I can sleep and I don’t have to think about any of this.

The television is playing when I wake up. I blink and move my hand up to rub the sleep from my eyelids before rolling over to get a better listen to what’s going on.

“I was going to wake you in a minute here,” Iset says. She’s still next to me, but not as close; a small sliver of open space separates our bodies, and I think she might be sitting up.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I think we’re going to see some action,” she says with a touch of enthusiasm.

Too damned early for that attitude. I push myself up into a sitting position and lean back against the headboard. First my fingers check the monitoring device to ensure that James is fine (he is) and then I reach to adjust my headphones only to remember that I had taken them out last night.

“Iset? Could you get me my pants?” I say. She doesn’t respond until I add, “I need my headphones from my pockets.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” she says eagerly then, and moves away from me. But rather than bringing me my pants like I asked, she presses my headphones into my palm. I guess that’s what I needed, but I can’t help but be irritated that she didn’t actually get me what I asked for.

Slipping the headphones into my ear, I sync them with the monitoring device.

“We’re on channel twenty-two,” she answers.

I adjust the channel so that it aligns with what we’re watching and I don’t have to listen to narrative that’s off from whatever sound is on the television. It’s in the middle of a commercial which gives me a minute to get myself situated. Iset sits right next to me and leans her head on my shoulder. Although I dislike the weight of her head on me, I don’t move as I distract myself by checking on James once more.

But that’s as far as I get because then the program returns.

And now Teddy has found Maggie and tentatively joined their alliance. As the minutes go by and they exchange a few words, it becomes clear that none of them really _want_ a three-person alliance. It’s too late in the Hunger Games to deal with two other people, not when you’re already in the final eight and it’s just a matter of time until you have to go your separate ways. But Teddy isn’t doing too hot on his own right now; the announcers are quick to point out that he hasn’t had anything to eat in over twenty-four hours and doesn’t have many supplies. James won’t kick him out of the alliance, though judging by the narration, he looks like he really wants to. Really it’s Maggie that binds them together. She doesn’t ask them to work together for her sake, but neither of them wants to upset her and make her choose who to ally with. Maybe because Teddy knows that Maggie won’t choose him; maybe because James respects her too much.

“This is tense,” Iset comments.

Yeah, no shit. But I keep my thoughts to myself. There’s no way in hell I’d even bother trying to explain to Iset that the issue goes well beyond entertainment value because to her, that’s _all_ this is. She doesn’t understand the tension she’s witnessing here is a mere drop of what those tributes are actually experiencing. This isn’t a high school drama; these kids are literally weighing life and death decisions right now, and the stress of it all might be enough to make them snap.

She takes my free hand in hers and squeezes it. I let her.

As we watch, it becomes clear that nothing of note is going to occur in the immediate future with the District 5 tributes, and eventually coverage switches away from them. We’re given updates about the Careers—Artemis is still on her own, but she’s currently tracking the District 10 boy, Lady’s tribute—and the District 1 pair are still joined at the hip. They’re making a good show of hunting for other tributes, but they aren’t really. Honestly, they’re probably completely lost and are just trying to make it look like they know what they’re doing. Every so often I check my monitoring device, only to be told that James is okay and, I assume by extension, so is Maggie.

Then we are given our first piece of action since yesterday: the District 1 pair happen upon the District 3 boy. Or, rather, he happens on them. The announcers guess that he is looking for food and hoping that they have some, but his plan to sneak up on them and steal their bags when they’re not looking has backfired. They spot him almost immediately and brandish their weapons.

Iset’s grip on my hand tightens and she lets out a hiss of excitement.

“I really had high expectations for him, but he’s been pretty boring,” she says offhandedly.

The District 3 tribute, Tech, kicks the District 1 male in the crotch and then runs as fast as he can in the snow as he makes his escape. The District 1 female is on him. She throws a knife that lands firmly in his shoulder, but when she catches up to him, he darts off in a completely different direction and towards an icy river which had, until this morning, been well frozen. Now an unnaturally hasty thaw has come upon it, and as Tech bounds onto the ice, it cracks underneath him.

The District 1 girl, Jewel, smirks at this and walks to the edge of the bank. She has another knife ready in her hands, but she doesn’t use it. No need to waste a knife if he’s going to fall into the cold waters and drown. Sure, it won’t count as her kill, but it’ll mean she doesn’t lose a knife that could come in handy later.

But somehow Tech makes it across the thinning ice and onto the far side of the river. The narrator describes the frustration that comes upon Jewel when she realizes that she’s lost this kill and she should have used that knife on him. She curses at the boy and yells a few insults across the river, but her words are lost as the kid keeps putting distance between them.

The District 1 boy, Lucky, just laughs at her now that he’s recovered from the skirmish. She has a few choice words for him, too, but he just shrugs them off.

“You ready for breakfast?” Iset asks.

After a second, I nod. “Yeah, sure,” I say. “But after that I have to go—”

“And sit back in the Training Center by yourself?” she cuts me off with a snort. “Yeah, I heard Solar. You need to spend more time relaxing and enjoying yourself. Well, for as much as you can enjoy yourself while James is alive. So you’re going to stay here with me today, okay?”

I nod. “Sure,” I say. My stomach lurches, but I untangle myself from the sheets and listen to Iset babble about the breakfast options. Surely she must know by now that I don’t want to be here. Surely she can’t be this stupid, not when I can’t even muster the strength to pretend to be interested in her. And yet, I’ll take the distraction. Because what is my other option but to go back to the Training Center and wallow in guilt and misery.


	40. Chapter 40

We eat breakfast without Rameses and Lady (who Iset says have already left for the day) and then Iset drags me back to bed. To my relief, she only wants to watch the Hunger Games with me, so we curl up together and she talks idly whenever things get a little dull in the arena. Which, honestly, is rather frequently given that nothing has happened since Tech escaped.

James is tasked with keeping his alliance alive. He and Maggie have meager rations, and Teddy has nothing, so now they have to figure out a reliable food source that will sustain the three of them. They toss around ideas about how to find food but can’t really settle on anything.

“There’s a river near here. We can probably fish,” James suggests.

“Do you have anything to fish with because I don’t,” Teddy says. Disgust edges into his voice as though he can’t believe that James suggested such a thing. If James weren’t my tribute, I might have more sympathy for the District 6 male because I know that he’s speaking irrationally due to hunger and fear, but I can’t allow myself to care. Teddy is James’ competition; I can’t let myself get attached to him like I did to Maggie and Artemis. It’s better to keep him at an arm’s length.

James sighs and looks at Maggie for a suggestion. She shrugs and says, “You mentioned that you were able to hit a few birds with rocks. Why don’t we try that?”

“That took hours and I only got—Never mind. Let’s give it a try,” he says.

The three of them rifle through the snow for the better part of half an hour trying to find as many good rocks as they can. The television station takes breaks to show the other tributes, but they always come back here since no one is doing anything of great interest.

Iset’s fingers wrap around mine and she squeezes.

“Something’s going to happen,” she says. “I know it.”

“Yeah? How do you know that?” I ask. But even as the words come out, I have the feeling that she’s right. Some gut instinct tells me that it won’t be long before the viewers are rewarded for their patience.

Iset’s fingers begin to knead my hand and she rests her head on my shoulder. Both are becoming familiar gestures, and I hate that I don’t have the desire to recoil from her as I once did. What the hell is wrong with me?

“All of the remaining tributes are in the same sector of the arena,” she says. “That’s what they’re called—sectors. The arena is divided into however many sectors (it’s different for every arena), but when the tributes are all in the same area, normally something exciting happens. If it’s not the tributes themselves starting something, then they’ll unlock a muttation or event.”

The daughter of a gamemaker. She might not have insight into this particular arena, but she’s picked up information over the years on the general workings of things.

“But they don’t want to end the Hunger Games too quickly,” I say.

“Yeah, I know. If there’s an event or muttation, it won’t be like the woolly rhinoceroses they used earlier,” she tells me. “It might kill a couple of tributes, but they don’t want the final battle to be something determined by mutts.”

She says it all so carelessly and comfortably. These are things she’s grown up with and it doesn’t bother her that she’s talking about killing kids. Yet her words also lack the drama and excitement that other Capitol citizens speak with when they have some ‘information’ about the arena or what will happen. Not that she isn’t excited (I can definitely tell that she is) but it’s _different_. She anticipates that something exciting will happen, but it’s like a kid who gets a thrill from dissecting a living insect more than one who can’t wait to see how the drama will unfold.

I draw in a breath. Iset, though she may seem kind, is a different sort of beast entirely. If last night hadn’t shown me that, then what she’s saying now and how she’s saying it should really clue me in. I focus on her hand on mine, her fingers pressing into my skin and releasing, and wonder if she knows how messed up she is.

Despite her insistence that something is going to happen, it appears that the gamemakers are not eager to get things started. For the next couple hours, the District 5-6 alliance throws rocks at birds and squirrels with varying degrees of success. James is pretty damned good at it (as we saw earlier) but the other two are lacking. Neither Maggie nor Teddy want to admit that they’re not pulling their own weight, and ultimately James has to share his meager success with the others. Maggie starts the fire while James and Teddy begin plucking feathers off the couple birds they have.

“All this work just for a couple mouthfuls of meat,” Teddy mutters.

James pauses, feathers stuck to his fingers, and stares at Teddy. He opens his mouth to say something, but must think better of it and closes it. He resumes his work but the narrator describes him as ‘brooding’ as he does so. I’m sure he’s cursing the fact that Teddy found them. For a kid who claims he works much better on his own, he sure is handling this unwanted ally much better than anticipated.

“I have to find some more wood. This stuff is too wet,” Maggie says as she stands up and wipes her hands on her pants.

James gets to his feet suddenly and thrusts the half-plucked bird at her. “I’ll go find some,” he says.

I don’t know if he suggests this because he needs a break or if he doesn’t want Maggie wandering off by herself. He’s already proven quite capable of taking care of himself whereas Maggie hasn’t spent as much time on her own. Though as Maggie plops down next to Teddy and starts plucking feathers off the bird, I can’t help but wonder if Teddy is really that trustworthy of an ally. Clearly Maggie trusts him, but maybe that’s not in their best interest right now. . . .

James slogs through the snow away from them, leaving behind a prominent trail carved into the white world. At first he keeps them within eyesight and starts climbing into trees to find sticks that might be useful as firewood, but the options are few. He jumps down and moves further away, keeping his attention on the world around him both for wood and for potential threats. He mutters things to himself, but the cameras aren’t close enough to pick it up.

And then he freezes.

I strain to listen to the narration knowing full well that James saw something. I pray that it’s merely a deer or something of that nature, but when Iset gasps and squeezes my hand, her fingers no longer moving to massage my palm, I know that we won’t get so lucky.

> James stops moving. He strains to see through the trees. After a moment, he takes a step backwards. . . . Ahead of him we see movement: the District 1 male and female. James turns and begins to go back in the direction he came. However, the District 1 tributes are catching up to him. They don’t appear to have seen him yet. James carefully positions himself. He throws himself at the nearest tree and grabs onto the trunk. Shimmies up into the branches. Then climbs up higher and higher until he can’t go further without the branches breaking.

The Careers have found him. . . . And it’s two against one. . . . I hold my breath and listen to the sounds coming from the television. No way they’ll not see him up in the tree.

But when they reach the trail, they stop and stare at the tracks. The snow is about knee- or thigh-height, so hiding one’s footprints is impossible even if one were trying. But James wasn’t even bothering; maybe he didn’t plan on going out this far, or maybe he was so distracted by Teddy that he didn’t even think about other threats out here.

My heart pounds and I want to pull away from Iset, but she doesn’t let me. Instead she grasps onto my arm and holds onto me tightly. The heat of her body is too much. The pressure of her against me is too heavy. I have to manually steady my breaths.

James grasps the tree and presses his face against the bark as he tries to watch down below him without being seen.

“This trail is fresh,” Jewel, says.

“Must’ve seen us coming and headed back the other way,” Lucky agrees.

Neither of them say anything about James; they haven’t seen him. Instead they take the trail James made since it has already been cut through the snow, and they hurry in the direction of the unsuspecting Maggie and Teddy. They walk with light steps, and the narrator describes how their faces are ‘aglow’ as they eagerly await whatever tribute is in front of them.

James clings to the tree, breathing hard, and stares down at the spot where the Careers had been moments before. After counting to ten, he starts to climb down, taking each branch one at a time. Once he reaches the ground, however, he hesitates. His hand remains on the rough bark of the tree.

But the camera quickly takes us back to the little clearing where Maggie and Teddy are finishing up with their birds. They don’t realize that the District 1 pair are almost upon them.

Jewel and Lucky burst into the clearing, weapons drawn. Maggie and Teddy cry out and jump to their feet. Maggie pulls out her knife, and Teddy grabs a small sword. But their shaking weapons are nothing compared to the expert blades of the Careers. Jewel grins with excitement. Lucky laughs at their fear.

I wrench away from Iset and sit up straighter. Pressing my hands against my ears as though I fear my headphones will fall out, I brace myself for what will happen. Two against two isn’t unfair, unless two of those people have never held a weapon and the other two have trained their entire lives. It will be a short battle, if you can even call it that. I can’t afford to think about Teddy, but Maggie. . . .

But then James creeps through the snow, keeping low, bag with the rock in hand. He pauses right outside their clearing, still hidden by bushes. He takes a deep breath, adjusts the makeshift weapon in his hands and—

—And then Artemis appears in the other side of the clearing with her own weapon drawn.

James falters. He withdraws back into the cover of foliage at the last moment, no one having seen him.

“Fancy seeing you here again,” Artemis says to her former allies. The narrator describes her as looking healthy, well-fed, and well-rested. It may not be the most exciting arena for a Career, but she has been handling it well.

Jewel rolls her eyes. “You’re interfering with our kills,” she says.

“I don’t see you killing anyone,” Artemis says. “You want me to show you how it’s done?”

“Get lost, District 2,” Lucky snaps. “Let us—”

As the Careers bicker, Teddy thinks he recognizes this as his one and only chance to escape. He turns and tries to flee, but Jewel flips a knife into his leg before he can make it more than a couple feet. He screams and falls to the snow. Grasping at his leg, he fumbles for the knife to take it out.

“Nice try,” Jewel says to him as she strolls closer. She leans down and pulls the knife out of his leg only to flip it around in her hand with unnecessary flourish and plunge it down into his chest. Teddy screams again, but then falls silent.

A cannon booms.

James closes his eyes and presses himself down into the snow. Maggie whimpers but moves her hands over her mouth to keep herself quiet. Tears fill her eyes, and she knows, I’m sure, that the same fate awaits her. There is no way she’ll get out of this, not unless someone else manages to draw away the attention of three powerful Careers. . . .

But that someone else remains silent. Maggie’s not a fighter, which means that James would be tasked to kill all three of the Careers on his own. And he’s not dumb enough to think it’s possible. He’s not dumb enough to think that his heroics would be rewarded. He’d be killed easily by the three of them, and then they’d turn on Maggie and kill her, too.

So when the District 1 male’s sword goes into Maggie’s chest, all James can do is remain where he is hidden, squeeze his eyes shut, and try not to cry lest he gives away his location.


	41. Chapter 41

“Elijah?” Iset asks.

The sounds of the cannons have long since faded, and yet they echo in my ears. The Careers argue back and forth between each other, but I don’t hear their words.

I wipe the tears from my cheeks with my arm and try not to think about the District 5 girl. Sweet Maggie, who I shouldn’t have gotten attached to. But I did. Pain carves into my stomach, and I huddle on the bed and try not to let myself fall apart completely. Yet all I can think of is the sound of the blade as it went into her body, and the guttural cry that escaped her lips before she fell into the snow beneath her.

Iset grabs my wrist and presses a tissue into my palm. I might thank her, I don’t know, but I wipe the tears from my face as instructed. Balling the tissue in my hand, I order myself to stop behaving like this. I am not in appropriate company to break down, and I need to focus on James anyhow.

My tribute still huddles in the snow behind the bush. He hasn’t moved since he will no doubt be seen if he tries to leave. It’s only the bickering of the Careers that keep him from being seen. They have no reason to think that he’s around, and even though they find three mostly empty bags around the clearing, they don’t even question that there might be another tribute nearby because they can’t stop taking verbal digs at each other.

Finally, though, the three of them move on. One hesitant three-person alliance was destroyed, and now another one is formed. If it were a ‘normal’ arena, the District 1 pair wouldn’t have allowed Artemis to join them, but I’m sure that they have their own reservations about how they will fare in the arena that is still heavily blanketed with snow. It’s a testament to how poorly the pair are doing that they don’t try to go off without Artemis’ help.

James waits. When many long minutes have passed, he goes into the clearing and grabs one of the bags. All three of them have been gutted, so it’s only an empty rucksack and nothing more, but if he manages to find his own supplies, he’ll need someplace to put them. Then he follows the trail back through the snow, picking up the District 1 tributes’ trail where his old one ended.

“Elijah?” Iset says again. She takes my head in her hands and she dabs a tissue under my eyelids to dry where I had missed. Then her fingers move across my skin until she has her hands on either side of my face. “Last night, Elijah, you did something for me. Now I’m going to do something for you.”

My mind is still on James and Maggie, and it takes me several seconds to withdraw from my own brain and focus on Iset. On her voice that has suddenly become serious, lacking the humor and innocence of before.

“Are you listening?” she asks.

“Yes,” I respond.

“James can’t win because he doesn’t have family, but it’s not for sentimental reasons,” she says to me. “They need to have someone who he loves so that they can control him. They don’t need a lot of people, but certainly more than a brother. That’s only one person, and if the brother dies, then they have no way to control him.”

I draw in a quick breath. Control. . . . Just like they control me. How they killed my parents and little sister. How I know that everything I do must be in line with what they want or they’ll kill Marie and the baby.

“Do you understand this, Elijah?” Iset asks. “If he is going to win, he needs to have family—and he needs to have it quickly before the numbers get too low.”

“Why—why are you telling me this?” I stammer.

“Because you did what I wanted you to,” she answers carefully. “I’m not stupid. I know you don’t want to be here, just as I know that Lady doesn’t want to be with my brother. There are far worse people to be with than us, though, so—”

“So I should be thanking you?” I say, but the bite is gone from my words. My brain is too full of things to muster up the anger and hatred that should be present when someone says that being forced to have sex with her is better than being forced to have sex with anyone else.

Still, Iset must pick it up regardless. “I’ve tried to make it not unpleasant,” she says. “A complete contrast to my brother’s style. He doesn’t give a shit about how he handles things.”

I open my mouth to retort to this, but I know that at best my remarks will do no good but at worst they could get James killed. So I close my mouth to redirect my thoughts onto what is actually important right now. Iset’s hands still cradle my face, and I know that it’s more than just a friendly gesture; there’s something cold in the way she touches me despite the warmth of her skin. When I finally speak, I leave behind thoughts of me because I know we are working on limited time and my tribute’s needs are far greater than my own.

“How do I get James more family?” I ask.

Iset doesn’t answer right away. She’s thinking or studying me or weighing the options. Maybe all three. Her hands leave my face and she shifts slightly away from me.

“He’s bound to have someone else back home,” she says firmly. “We’ll get you a ticket to Transistor.”

“Iset—I can’t leave the Capitol,” I immediately protest.

“I know that,” she says with confidence. “Which is why we’ll keep this hush-hush. You’ll be back in twenty-four hours—forty-eight tops—and in the meantime everyone will think you’re with me.”

Oh no. There is nothing about this plan that sounds even remotely good. Iset sounds so proud of herself, and yet I have no idea why. As a mentor, I’m required to stay in the Capitol to keep an eye on my tribute unless there is some critical reason that I should return to District 5. Visiting Transistor to try to find James’ family would not meet that criteria. And if this is supposed to be kept secret, well . . . I don’t know what to make of it at all. Certainly Iset _must_ know that I have to stay here. . . . She must have that sort of knowledge into the basic fundamentals of mentoring.

“And what am I expected to do in Transistor?” I say, swallowing back the uneasiness of this strange plan that seems oh-so-wrong. All it would take is for one person to see me back in District 5 and everything would go to shit.

“You can find James’ biological parents, or maybe even the foster ones,” she says. “Convince them to do an interview so that they are better cemented as James’ family.”

“Iset . . . there are so many flaws with this plan,” I say.

“Like what?” she demands.

“Like that I’m blind. I will never be able to find anybody,” I tell her, irritation rising in my voice. “I just can’t go gallivanting across the country on top secret missions the same way that the next person could.”

Iset huffs. “I’m not an idiot, Elijah,” she states. “I’ll find someone to go with you. Someone who thinks you’re secretly sneaking back for your wife. It’s—”

“That’s even worse!” I interrupt. “Damnit, Iset, do you not realize that if I do even one thing wrong, they will not hesitate to kill Marie?! I can’t go back to District 5 without official permission, end of story!”

She’s quiet for a moment as she shifts around on the bed. I listen to the pounding of blood in my ears and try not to let myself go off on her again. She might be a spoiled, foolish girl, but she is a Capitolite and I cannot freak out on her. Iset sounds like she’s going to say something but thinks better of it. For several minutes, neither of us speak. I brood in my anger, and Iset, well . . . heaven only knows what’s going through her head.

“Being a victor is weird,” she finally says with uncharacteristic innocence.

I furrow my brow and twist the ring absently on my finger. As the daughter of a gamemaker, she knows a fair bit about the Hunger Games and what to expect, but she seems to be lacking in what all of this really means and the broader impacts of the event. How does she not understand that people like her can take advantage of victors like Lady or me, and the only reason we don’t resist is because people near us will be punished? Or maybe she does know. . . . Ugh, she is so damned confusing, and I’m _tired_ of it all.

“Iset, I know you mean well,” I start, keeping my voice as gentle as I can manage.

“No, I don’t,” she answers. “And I’ll get you to who you need to speak with one way or another.”

“But I can’t leave—”

“I know. I’ll figure this out. Just give me a minute,” she cuts me off. She takes my hand in hers and runs her fingers on my palm as she continues, “I might be just a college student, but I am a well-connected one. And I don’t mean my father’s connections, either. I have an idea, but I need to make some phone calls. No, phones are monitored. . . . I need to run to campus. . . .”

She seems to be thinking more to herself than to me. I don’t interrupt her as she works through the situation out loud. Part of me doubts that she can really be of much use, and yet I don’t have a choice because what she said about James needing family can only be true. Or maybe it’s just the painful memories of my own family and how I failed to protect them. . . .

Iset says suddenly, “Let’s eat lunch, and then I’ll run to campus, okay? You’ll stay here.”

She orders delivery for us, then takes a shower while we wait. Fortunately she is back in time to answer the door because I really don’t want to be associated with this residence if I can avoid it at all costs. After we eat, she gives me a towel and tells me where things are around the shower, then she says she’ll be back as soon as she can.

I shower slowly, then make myself acquainted with her room enough to figure out the locations of the major pieces of furniture. Then I make her bed so I can sit down on it without feeling like I’m forever in her sheets. It’s little comfort, but it is something at least. And it keeps me somewhat mentally occupied, at least for a few minutes. Yet the moment I lower myself back onto the mattress now covered with her thick comforter, the guilt and fear return.

It’s messed up that my depression doesn’t mute these emotions. Or maybe, I think with a start, this _is_ muted. Maybe the anxiety would be tenfold in any other circumstance.

I can’t even use the television as a distraction. The anchors on every station dig into Maggie and Teddy’s deaths, replaying everything over and over again. The only good thing about this is that they go on about how James managed to escape; it seems that they don’t want to talk about how distracted the Careers were, so they make it seem like my tribute’s narrow escape was due to his own skill and not oversight on the Career’s parts. After all, they had enough clues to make them suspicious that there should have been another person with Maggie and Teddy . . . a third backpack, the fact that neither Maggie nor Teddy were aware that the Careers were close by even though the Careers suspected that one of them had seen them coming, etc. It may very well be a Career victory this year, so no need to make them look unnecessarily bad.

At long last, Iset returns. She throws herself on the bed. At first, I think that she has failed in whatever task she sent out to do but then she laughs.

“Don’t look so glum. You will be amazed at my genius,” she says as she scoops both of my hands up in hers and squeezes them.

“You mean your connections,” I say. I let my hands lay limp in hers, neither encouraging nor discouraging her touch.

She moves up near me and says, “Potayto, potahto. But regardless, you’re going to thank me. . . . I have arranged a meeting for you with someone who will be able to help you out.”


	42. Chapter 42

Iset wants to leave right away, but before we get out the door, my phone rings. At first I consider letting it go to voicemail, but it’s Marie calling and I can’t do that. I excuse myself, take the phone into the bathroom, and turn on the fan. Huddling in the corner, I crouch down and accept the phone call.

“Hi, Marie,” I say.

 _“Hey, Eli,”_ Marie replies. _“What’s up?”_

“Er, just doing the usual mentoring business,” I answer because details are completely not necessary at this point. I slump down against the wall and sit on the cold tile. “Is everything okay?”

 _“Oh, I just wanted to say hi,”_ she answers. _“Do you have a minute?”_

I tell her that I do, and then she goes on about things. Completely random stuff. I’m not sure how much of this is even real anymore and how much is fabricated to make life more bearable. But we go with it and neither of us dares to interrupt the fantasy. But then Marie’s voice grows more somber, and I sense that she has something less pleasant waiting on the tip of her tongue. We dance around it for a minute before I finally say, “What’s bothering you, Marie?”

 _“I just—well, Lucinda called me,”_ she says. She hesitates and I bite my tongue so I don’t immediately object to whatever is going to come next. Lucinda might be my ex and we might have parted on bad terms (for a very good reason), but she is still Marie’s sister. I hear Marie take a deep breath and she continues, _“She wants to reconnect with me. She said that she realized that we can’t live our lives no longer on speaking terms.”_

So she decided to ‘reconnect’ right in the middle of the Hunger Games? Wonderful.

“Geeze, really?” I mutter.

 _“Eli, if I decide to reconnect with her, it’s going to piss you off, isn’t it?”_ she asks.

I laugh dryly. “Yeah, probably,” I admit. “She slept with my brother while I was in the Hunger Games, lied about it, and then broke up with me because I’m not good father material.”

 _“Sometimes I forget why I’m mad at her, but then when you say something like that. . . .”_ she mutters.

She cut Lucinda out of her life for a reason; what her sister did upset us both. And it’s frustrating that Lucinda wants to mend the rift between them right now, of all times. If I were back in District 5, then I could help Marie deal with her sister. But I’m not. I can’t leave Marie struggling with everything more or less on her own. I don’t want Lucinda around, especially not right now with Marie pregnant and all. Yet reconnecting with a sister who cheated on me is nothing compared to whatever is going on in my world of the Capitol right now. How the hell could I tell her to not speak with her sister because it upsets me when I just literally had sex with some other woman? How great of an asshole would I be?

“Yeah, um, but she’s your sister,” I say as I rub my eyebrows. Every word is difficult, but I force it out of my mouth anyhow. “Go ahead and meet up with her if you want.”

Marie doesn’t answer for a moment. When she does, she proceeds tentatively. _“I thought you’d put up more of a fight than that,”_ she says.

“Do you want her back in your life?” I asked.

But no sooner do I get the words out of my mouth than a knock comes on the bathroom door followed by Iset’s voice, “C’mon, Elijah, we have to leave.”

 _“Who’s that?”_ Marie asks.

“Er, someone who wants me to do mentoring stuff,” I lie quickly. “I’m sorry, love, but I have to leave. Yes, I mean it: talk with Lucinda if you want to. I won’t be angry.”

 _“Alright, Eli,”_ she says hesitantly. _“I haven’t made my decision so I’ll think about it and let you know.”_

“Thanks,” I answer. “And . . . thanks for calling. I love you.”

 _“Love you, too,”_ she answers. Iset knocks on the door again, so I say goodbye before the Capitolite has a chance to start talking again and trigger more suspicion in my wife. But as I sit there huddled on the floor of the bathroom, phone clenched in my hand, I can’t help the wave of sadness that rolls through me. The great betrayal I’ve committed against my wife. I know it wasn’t really my fault, but I still can’t help thinking how much this has hurt her (hurt the both of us), and I’m not sure how I’m going to handle it from here. Harmony once said that were I a normal person in a normal world, the priority would be to get me away from people like Solar and Iset, but there’s no chance of that now; I’ll constantly have to face them and live with the decisions I’ve made that have lead up to this point.

For the first time, I’m dreading returning back to District 5 and being with my wife again.

Iset beckons me into a cab. I don’t ask where we’re going; sometimes not knowing is better. She doesn’t offer the information. Hell, she doesn’t offer any information. She’s strangely quiet. I’d take it as foreboding but I recall that when we want to the party where she introduced me to Vespasianus, she was fairly quiet on that car ride as well. Maybe it’s just the one place where she does her thinking.

I expect us to go to the University, but we don’t. When the car comes to a stop, Iset waits until we’re standing on the sidewalk before telling me that we’re at a small café owned by the friend of a friend. That doesn’t give me much to go off of, but I just acknowledge her words with a nod. The city streets are busy with vehicles, people, and music; at least we aren’t in whatever ‘desolate’ part of town Vespasianus had me meet him in.

Iset leads me through the café and out through another door onto what must be the back porch. She takes me to a table and then stops where she introduces me to a woman named Nelida.

“It’s nice to meet you, Elijah,” the woman says. She speaks maturely and calmly as she tells me that she is a friend of a friend of Iset’s and she is more than happy to help me. Everything she says is with great purpose, even if it’s merely a formality of greeting. I imagine that I am in the presence of a great monarch of old.

“Please, take a seat,” she bids me, and I reach out to the find the back of the chair. It takes a moment for me to pull out the chair and sit down without running into the table. Probably not the most graceful, but I’m slowly coming to accept that I can’t have such high expectations of myself.

“I’ll leave you guys to talk,” Iset says lightly. Her footsteps disappear and I realize that she left me without even so much of an explanation as to what I’m doing here or who Nelida actually is. Guess I’ll have to figure it out the hard way.

“So you have a bit of a predicament on your hands,” the older woman says to me.

There’s no hesitation in her voice or any indication that my ‘predicament’ is one that shouldn’t be spoken of in the open. However, I’m still not very eager in divulging too many details, not without knowing who she is or who else might be within earshot. Every now and again I hear a noise to indicate that we’re not alone on this back patio behind the café, but Nelida seems to have no need to guard her speech.

“Er, well, yes,” I stammer.

If she notices my nervousness, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead she goes on, “Hm, yes, James has quite a conundrum. However, I think we might have a solution to your situation. I have contacts in the districts—District 5 in particular—and I think we might be able to find family for James.”

“Alright,” I say. This is promising. I’m sure it’ll come at a cost, but at least it’s something.

“Over the years, James has gone through a great many homes as well as spent some time in community facilities,” she continues. “He has met a good number of boys and girls who could very well be his brothers and sisters. I think a few of them might be willing to go along with this for the right price. What do you think, Elijah?”

I hesitate. The ‘right price’? She’s talking about bribing desperate kids to be used against James. Sure, they get a few extra dollars in their pockets if they say that they’re James’ siblings, and then what? They get killed at the Capitol’s whims? I rub my forehead and try not to automatically shoot the idea down. I promised James, I remind myself.

_But at what cost?_

Is saving his life worth putting others at risk?

“What is the right price?” I ask carefully.

“I suppose it depends on the person,” she answers. “But first it depends on what you say. You are James’ mentor after all, and it is your decision if we go forward.”

I take a deep breath to steady myself and twist the ring on my finger.

“So it is true that the lack of family excludes James from victory?” I say carefully. Nelida might be confident and articulate, but I am not. I tread this conversation with uneasiness knowing full well not just one life will be dependent upon whatever I choose.

“It is true,” she answers easily. There’s neither concern nor sympathy in her words. Like with Iset, this is just a fact of life for her. Neither good nor bad, neither concerning nor exciting.

“These kids will get a choice?” I ask. “They will not be forced to say that they are James’ siblings?”

“That is correct,” she confirms.

There’s something fundamental about this situation that Nelida is hiding, but I don’t know what that is and I don’t dare dig too deeply. How the hell can I make a decision like this even if I had all the information in the world? How could I choose between guaranteeing that James will die and putting other people in such peril? And my own family . . . what I would give to have never had my parents and sister killed. . . . Could I doom other people to that same fate?

But I can’t abandon James. I told him that I’d do everything that I could to give him a chance. . . . Everything. And to say no would mean that I’d be giving him nothing at all. His death would be my responsibility. . . .

And the death of these other kids? What happens when they die because James doesn’t follow the rules? Will their blood be on my hands, too?

“Alright. Okay,” I agree. “Let’s do this.”

“As you wish,” she says with a smile. “I will get things in motion and contact you when it is necessary.”

“Thank you,” I answer.

“Now, I do hope you won’t think me rude, but I better get to business,” she says.

“Yeah, sure,” I say. After a moment, I realize that she doesn’t mean that _she_ is leaving but that I have to leave. So I stand up carefully, grab my cane, and push in my chair. “Thanks again.”

As I wander away from that brief encounter, I wonder if I should be thanking her at all. No doubt whatever occurs from here will be a complete disaster, but I could never move forward in life knowing that I had done nothing to help James.

And he has a chance, I remind myself. He’s proven himself in battle, he’s shown that he can survive the elements, and, even though I hate to even think about it, by abandoning Teddy and Maggie to be killed, he shows that he knows that heroics are of no benefit to him and he can make a rational decision under pressure. Not a _good_ decision or a decision that is even remotely admirable, but at least it indicates that he has the chance of being victorious.

I toe a very dangerous line.

Ah, but who am I kidding? At this point, I am so invested in James that there is no ‘toeing’ of any lines. I’m all in.

Iset meets up with me before I can get too totally lost out here on the café porch. She chats easily about nothing in particular as she leads me through the café and outdoors once again where we wait for a cab. I try to steady myself and keep my mind focused on the end goal here, and I tell myself that I’m only doing what any other rational victor would do in my position.


	43. Chapter 43

Being immersed in Iset’s world all the time begins to stifle me, and I can’t help but feel more trapped than ever as time goes on. In the cab, I ask to be excused to go to the Training Center, but she insists I return to her apartment with her instead. For a few minutes, I consider trying to explain to her that I need to use the treadmill in the exercise room, but I fear that she would only find a completely different treadmill in some exposed or otherwise uncomfortable location that I would be forced to use. So we return to her apartment and spend the better part of the day in her sitting room watching the Hunger Games.

I hate it. I can’t leave, I can’t breathe, I can’t do anything but sit here on the couch with Iset. And why? Because she really wants my companionship? Because she wants to keep me contained? I don’t understand the purpose of being here twenty-four seven, and it’s only adding to my agitation. But it’s an agitation I need to pretend I don’t have, so I swallow it down and let it stew inside me until everything is over-boiled and disgusting. Yet there’s nothing I can do but let it continue to cook because I can’t show Iset how much I am completely done with being here.

She acts like everything is okay. She doesn’t care that I just doomed a bunch of kids to give James a shot at living through a completely pointless game that she supports. She doesn’t care that Maggie’s death tears me apart because Capitolites don’t get attached to the tributes so she can’t relate to my pain at all. She doesn’t care about the things I had to do for Vespasianus’ entertainment because it’s all just a part of her evil world. And she doesn’t know about the things that I’m struggling with outside of her small space, and if she did, I’m sure that she wouldn’t care about that, either.

No, instead she insists that I sit right next to her, my hand in hers, and listen to Caligula and Janice go on about the excitement of the morning and how there are only six tributes left.

She talks about each of the remaining tributes and what chances they have. She assures me that James is the one she wants to win, but of course (as she tells me) she has no influence in that decision even though her dad’s a gamemaker. She acts as though I shouldn’t be emotionally invested in James or Maggie; she never says this, but I can tell that she doesn’t understand why I don’t share her interest in whatever fun facts the announcer and interviewer discuss to keep people occupied.

“Iset, I need to go back to the Training Center,” I say to her at long last when my insides are grating together and I fear that there’s only so much time before I rupture.

She’s quiet for a moment, but her grip loosens ever so slightly on my hand.

“What’s in the Training Center?” she asks.

“The mentoring room, for one,” I tell her, barely keeping myself together. “Other mentors for another.”

“You prefer their company?” she asks.

Hell yes I do. But I won’t say that. I swallow hard and proceed carefully.

“It’s part of my job,” I say. “I have to be around them sometimes.”

“Solar doesn’t,” she says.

“That’s because Solar is—” I stop myself before I can allow my actual thoughts to pour from my mouth. Taking a breath, I force myself to proceed rationally. “I don’t understand her technique. Most mentors do their business from the Training Center.”

Iset doesn’t answer right away. I know that I need her ‘permission’ to leave, and if she doesn’t grant it to me, God only knows what I’ll do. I can only hold myself together for so long. . . . As she thinks, I fiddle with my mentoring device and search for supplies to fill James’ inventory. It’s only a meager bit that’s financed primarily by Vespasianus, and as I’m sending James a fire starter and a warm meal, I curse myself for not killing that avox and quadrupling his funds.

Unable to deal with the awkward silence, I stand up and announce that I’m going to the bathroom. Iset doesn’t protest to that, at least, and I head out before she realizes that she’s going to be without me for a whole two minutes.

In the bathroom, I drag my feet and give myself as much time as I dare. When I finally reemerge, I return to the couch and take my seat next to her again.

She immediately breaks the silence and says, “Solar called. Twice.” And then she plops my phone into my hand.

“Twice?” I say, raising an eyebrow. I check my phone. Sure enough, when I push the ‘missed calls’ button, I’m told that Solar did try to reach me two times in quick succession, but she didn’t leave a message on my voicemail either time. I shrug and go to slip my phone in my pocket when I feel Iset’s hand on my arm.

“Aren’t you going to call her back?” she asks.

“Er . . .” I hesitate. No, I did not intend to call her back. But I know I have to. Solar has put on quite a good performance for Iset and many people in their circle; they don’t know how terrible of a person she is, and I can’t let on that I know the truth. So I hold my phone in my hand and give it a voice command to call Solar.

As I listen to the phone ring, I both dread what she has to say and consider the situation with curiosity. Solar has never once called me like this. It’s quite out of character for her. But I know that whatever she wants probably isn’t pleasant at all.

 _“Oh, Elijah, thanks for calling me back,”_ she says at last.

“What do you want?” I ask.

 _“Is that the way to talk to me?”_ she laughs. She’s right. Iset still sits next to me, and I’m sure she can hear this conversation just as well as I can; I’ll have to watch my words carefully. Damn my stupidity for not excusing myself and making this phone call in private. Solar continues, _“I went to get my things from the Training Center and you weren’t there—I was worried.”_

Bullshit.

Solar knows perfectly well where I am right now. She just wanted a reason to call me and rub it in that I’m here and not over there. That I’m well outside my comfort zone and it’s all her doing. I grit my teeth and force myself to behave as the mature party here.

“Yep, I’m not there,” I say. “Sorry to trouble you.”

 _“Where are you?”_ she asks with forced innocence. She wants to hear me say it. It’s not good enough to _know_ where I am because if that were the case, she wouldn’t have bothered calling me.

Fine. Whatever. I just want to be off this phone call. I’m acutely aware of Iset sitting next to me; she is no doubt hanging onto every bit of this conversation with great interest.

“I’m with Iset,” I answer evenly.

 _“Oh.”_ She struggles to contain her amusement at this. I rub my cheek and consider hanging up on her right here and now, but think better of it and clutch the phone as I struggle through this conversation. _“Wow, you spend a lot of time with her. I guess I shouldn’t be jealous but . . . you know it’s weird being here without you.”_

“Okay, Solar, you’ve said what you wanted,” I say between clenched teeth.

 _“Well forgive me for being worried about you,”_ she answers. Then she laughs. _“Don’t worry, Elijah, I’m just giving you a bad time. I hope you and Iset are enjoying each other’s company. Don’t forget to tell her how much you like—”_

“I have to go,” I cut her off before she can say whatever she’s going to say. I don’t give her time to respond to this before I disconnect the phone call. My hand drops to my lap heavily; I lack the energy necessary to slip the phone back into my pocket.

Iset doesn’t say anything for a moment. I’d like to think that she’s giving me a minute to compose myself after speaking with Satan herself, but I know that she’s probably just thinking about the conversation and how worried Solar supposedly is about me.

“You alright, Elijah?” Iset finally asks.

“Um, yeah, just done with talking to people for the day,” I answer.

“Oh.”

“Ah, shit, I mean between multiple phone calls and the conversation with Nelida—”

Iset places her hand on mine and squeezes it. “It’s okay,” she answers. “I guess you’re used to mentoring in the Training Center. . . .”

For a moment, I think that she’s going to excuse me to go back to my Training Center apartment, but instead she lays her head on my shoulder and says, “Thanks for being here with me.”

I can’t even muster up a simple ‘you’re welcome’ at this point. How the hell is she stupid enough to think that my presence here is out of my own free will?

But she’s not stupid, is she? She just pretends that she is until the situation calls for her to be more mature or intellectual, and then she quickly snaps into that other mindset. Why she behaves like this, I don’t understand; moreover, I _don’t care_. I just want to be out of here and back in the Training Center. But I know that the longer we stay here on the couch together and the more time passes, the less likely she will be to let me go since she no doubt wants me to be here with her tonight.

“Iset? If I’m going to be staying here longer, I need some of my clothes from my apartment,” I try carefully. Since my requests to leave have gone unheard, I can’t risk making it seem like I’m still begging to be let free. But if I could leave to get my clothes, I could at least take a few minutes to myself without her. . . . Hell, maybe I’ll even take a nap. . . .

“Sure. I’ll have an avox get that arranged,” she says simply.

I nod at that because I can’t explain that I can get my clothes myself. It’s not even a matter of this being a great intrusion of privacy as some random avoxes go through my room to get my belongings out because it’s not like they aren’t cleaning and maintaining the room all the time, and the clothes aren’t even mine to begin with. But it would be so _easy_ for me to go there myself and get what I need, no avoxes involved. I can’t even tell if Iset’s trying to avoid having me leave her or if the fact that I could go pick up the clothes myself doesn’t even cross her mind because she’s so used to avoxes doing her bidding.

I manage a weak, “Thanks.” But she’s already fiddling with something on her phone, and a moment later she tells me that everything’s handled.

Now that that’s done and there are no plausible excuses to leave her presence, I resolve myself to getting through the next couple hours without imploding. And after that, I’ll work on tackling the next few hours.

Iset settles into place next to me again, and I find myself adjusting against her to make myself comfortable. As we listen to the Hunger Games play from the television, I work on my breathing techniques to try to calm myself down; this is impeded by the fact that I also have to come across as a normal human being and not as someone who may appear to be struggling to breathe. It takes only greater control to manage myself. But as time passes, I find myself relaxing more and more until I begin to doze. Iset holds my hand and leans against me.

We wake up in time to eat dinner and listen to Lady’s tribute, Walker, get ripped apart by a saber-toothed tiger, and then we return to Iset’s bedroom for the evening.


	44. Chapter 44

I wake up in the morning with the thought that I should check in with Lady for some reason or another, but I can’t quite place why. It’s not until I’m checking on James that I remember that her tribute died last night. I’ll give her some space, I tell myself, and then I’ll check in on her.

But on that note, I remember that I should have checked in with Terra, too, after her tribute died so many days ago. Damn. Have we really been in this slog for nine full days? Has it really been that long since I gave a shit about Terra’s predicament?

As I lay in bed and listen to Iset sleep next to me, it occurs to me that I don’t care. No, that’s not quite it. It’s that I _can’t_ care. Like maybe I want to care, but I don’t have the ability to give a shit anymore. Not about Terra’s tribute, not about Lady’s tribute. And Maggie. . . . I find my chest too hollow; there’s nothing for the sadness to stick to anymore. The sadness is there, yes, but it’s more like it’s floating around in space with no great purpose. It’s almost distressing, except that I can’t afford to be distressed; there are too many other things for me to focus on, and how to emotionally process a few dead kids doesn’t take priority. I need to make sure that James gets out of the arena alive. That’s it. That’s all I can do right now.

I reach out and touch Iset on the cheek.

She stirs and says, “Morning.”

“Shhh, I didn’t mean to wake you,” I say to her. “Go back to sleep.”

She’s quiet for a moment before mumbling something incoherent and moving closer to me. I put an arm around her, close my eyes, and try to convince myself that more sleep is a good idea. Of course it doesn’t come, and I just find myself numbly wondering what the hell I’m doing in this bed with this person who is little better than a stranger.

Time of some quantity goes by, and then Iset stirs again.

“Give me a minute and I’ll make breakfast,” she says sleepily.

I consider asking her if I can go back to the Training Center, but I give up and just acknowledge her statement with some affirmative noise or another. Arguing isn’t worth the effort. Begging will do no good. Hell, I can’t even bring myself to care that if I’m going to stay here, maybe I could be polite and tell her that I will help her make breakfast. Yet all niceties go out the window when you’re held captive, so I guess I can’t beat myself up too much over that.

Iset kisses me on the cheek and then climbs out of bed. She heads off to the bathroom, and I feel around the end table next to her side of the bed until I find the remote control. Small task that it is, it exhausts me and I use up the last of my energy pressing the power button. Caligula and Janice go on about how thrilling yesterday was with three whole deaths, and then there are replays of the various murders and such that happened.

When Iset comes out of the bathroom a minute later, she tells me that she’s going to the kitchen and asks me to join her if I want. I don’t want to, of course, but I tell her that I’ll be there in just a minute. And then I use that entire minute (and then some) trying to work up the energy to push the blankets off me. There’s no room for this sort of lethargy in the Hunger Games, I remind myself, and I need to pretend that I am fully functional. Can’t make it look like I don’t want to be here. It’s clear enough, of course, but Iset has chosen to willfully ignore it.

At last I move the blankets off me, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and stand up.

It’s another minute before I can pull on my clothes and head out of the bedroom into the hallway.

Iset is already clanking around the kitchen when I walk in. Tapping, scraping, I don’t know what other noises. I find my spot at the counter where I’ve been eating breakfast every day now, and she begins talking about the Hunger Games and how they _must_ be close to the end with only five tributes left.

With five tributes remaining, it could go on for several days more, but that would only be if there were things keeping the viewers at home entertained. Aside from the bloodbath and a few skirmishes (mostly involving James), there have been few things to keep people’s attention. Yeah, there were some little events here or there, but nothing that really captivated people. I just hope that if the end comes soon, then whatever is going on behind the scenes to secure James family happens very quickly.

“Do you want anything in your pancakes?” Iset asks.

“ _In_ my pancakes?” I repeat.

“Yeah, like chocolate chips or blueberries,” she says.

Oh, duh. “Um, I’ll just have whatever you’re having,” I say. “But I’m fine with plain.”

Iset hums to herself as she continues with cooking, and I pretend that I’m on another planet until she tells me that everything’s ready to eat. She asks me what toppings I want (just syrup is fine) and what I’d like to drink (coffee), and everything else is a blur.

As we sit down to eat breakfast, the first few bars of the national anthem play from the television and Iset gasps. I, too, am immediately hooked by whatever is to follow; it’s a notification for us, the viewers at home, to pay close attention to whatever happens next in the arena. And sure enough, moments later Janice’s voice calls to all of the tributes:

“Attention all tributes! There is to be a feast today at noon on the open banks of the river,” the announcer’s voice rings out through the arena. “You will find the location now marked with a flag. All remaining tributes are encouraged to attend.”

And then, as quickly as her voice came, it is gone.

“This is it,” Iset whispers. Her fingers grasp onto my wrist.

I kind of don’t care. I do, but I don’t. Like intellectually or logically I care, but I don’t feel much at all right now so it’s hard to really be invested in it. Still, I want James to win, and I know that what happens at the feast will change the course of the Hunger Games altogether. That’s what feasts do; they create them in order to shake things up and ensure that the end is on the horizon. James and I had talked about how to handle feasts, but since anything could happen, a mere conversation or two wouldn’t cover all the possibilities.

“I’m going to have to cancel my spa day,” Iset says to herself and then she’s quiet for a few moments, her fork motionless on her plate. It would make sense if she went to the spa and I went to the Training Center, but then she’s talking to someone at the spa to reschedule her visit to another day. Anyway, even if I had brought it up, it’s not like she would have wanted to be away from me during this critical time.

We continue eating breakfast as she goes on with renewed vigor about what she believes will happen. Almost all feasts guarantee _something_ to whatever tributes are still alive (provided they are able to get their items without someone else stealing them), but even that hasn’t been true in the past. So it gives Iset a whole host of possibilities that could occur.

“Normally they try not to make it too unfair,” she says to me. “Because usually every tribute has someone important sponsoring them (even if it’s just one person), so the gamemakers don’t want to make it look obvious that they’re trying to throw the Hunger Games. But it can definitely be set up to cater to one tribute over another.”

My Hunger Games was thankfully devoid of feasts because we had other exciting things to keep people’s attention (like torture), and then the audience kept themselves occupied with a betting war, but I’ve tried to think about how to handle feasts for the sake of advising my tributes. There are some things that you obviously _don’t_ want to do, but what is ‘right’ in a situation like this can only be determined on a case-by-case basis. In some ways, it’s even less predictable than the rest of the Hunger Games. Iset’s babbling, however, confirms my suspicions that feasts can be set up in order to benefit one tribute more than another; I file this away in my mind for future years.

When we finish eating, Iset swoops the plates away and cleans up the kitchen while I excuse myself and take a shower. The avox had delivered my clothing last night, and now I have a suitcase full of stuff to wear. I hadn’t bothered checking to see what was what, but it appears that I have a good variety of clothes. Now that I’m showered and in fresh clothing, I wish I felt better than I did. But I don’t, and I’ll just have to accept that the fact that I don’t feel _worse_ is the gold standard in life right now.

Iset is on the phone talking with friends when I get out of the bathroom. I hear my name come up a couple times as I pause in the hallway and listen, and my stomach lurches as whatever hope I had that ‘our’ situation would remain private vanishes instantly. Oh well. No longer wanting to eavesdrop, I head into the kitchen.

“Oh, I have to go,” she says to whoever’s on the phone. “I’ll see you guys later! Yeah. Certainly. There’s bound to be one tonight, I’m sure of it. Okay bye!”

She sighs and walks over to me. Wrapping her arms around my neck, she says, “Are you ready to watch the feast?”

“Is it time already?” I ask with uncertainty. My hands go to my watch and I realize that we’re only about half an hour away. Not sure how late we slept in today, but it was later than normal. And I’ve been shit at keeping track of time this morning anyhow.

As an answer, she leads me over to the couch. We sit down and she turns on the television and adjusts the volume. I fiddle with my headphones and get myself situated so that we’re on the same channel. Iset squeezes my hand and leans against me. We’re ready for whatever terrible things are in store.

They show us the area of for the feast. A great silver flagpole bearing our nation’s flag has appeared in the snow. It’s far too large to be stolen and moved, which means that no tribute would be able to trick another into thinking that the feast is happening elsewhere. The cold wind snaps the flag back and forth.

“They have several feast locations set up around each arena,” Iset tells me. “That way if they need to call a feast, they can put it in a place that is easily accessible by all remaining tributes. In this case, it would have been out of everyone’s way to make the feast at the Cornucopia, but if everyone had been scattered around the different sectors, that’s where they would have held it.”

“I see,” I comment. I wonder if Iset is intentionally telling me these things or if she’s just talking and this is what comes out.

No, this is intentional. She’s very good at talking nonsense all the time, and I’ve seen her shift back and forth between useless chatter and things that have substance. So then the question becomes whether Iset is telling me this as mere fact or if she’s giving it to me to help me out in some way or another. I’m afraid to ask anything that might make her stop dropping these comments, so I just squeeze her hand so she knows that I’m alive and kind of participating in the conversation.

“Have they shown any tributes yet?” I ask even though my narration has told me that all five of the remaining tributes have crept closer through the snowy landscape as they approach the feast. No one wants to be late, but it would be idiotic to arrive before the feast begins, so they hang back in the forest. Out in the open, one would be quite easy to kill.

“Not yet,” she answers.

Caligula and Janice go on for another couple of minutes as the time ticks down. But then the Careers break through the foliage and strut out into the open. They will be the first here at the feast and they will dominate it.

“Stupid,” I mutter.

“What?” Iset asks.

“If the Careers are there before the feast begins, then other tributes won’t want to show up,” I say. “It would be more beneficial if the Careers stayed in the forest where they were and waited until Tech and James showed themselves.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Unless they just want whatever supplies show up.”

“But why? They could end the Hunger Games right now,” I say. “All they would have to do is kill the other two, then turn on each other.”

“Honestly, they’ve been really boring,” she says.

“My point exactly. They’ve been so boring that people want to see _something_ happening,” I reply. “Do people really want to watch the Careers stand here and scare everyone away?”

But our conversation drops away as Tech and James approach the tree line, both of them staying out of sight of the Careers who are strutting around beneath the flagpole.

Then Janice’s voice calls out, “Welcome, tributes, to the feast!” and the ground opens wide enough for a table, laden with goods, to rise up from the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in a day? Yikes. I'm getting wild and crazy here.


	45. Chapter 45

The gamemakers have been quite generous with the feast. Each tribute has a bag labelled with their district number, but aside from that, there are great quantities of warm foods and beverages on the table like it truly is a great celebratory meal: sizzling meats and pies, rich side dishes, breads with steam rising from the top, mugs of coffee and tea and cider. It’s all probably too much for the tributes to stomach, but I’m sure the smells are enticing to kids who have been a few meals away from starvation for the past week and a half.

The Careers grab up their bags and help themselves to the food. They’re not stupid about it and stick with things that are less likely to make them sick. Some they pocket for later, but they stuff a good portion into their mouths as they wait for Tech and James to show themselves.

Tech makes the first move. The kid hasn’t eaten nearly as well as James, though he’s done pretty good all things considered. He darts forward while the Careers are distracted, his legs moving quickly across the snow-covered field. Just like at the Cornucopia, he’s under the Careers’ noses before they even realize what’s happening. As they draw their weapons, Tech grabs onto a bag. The District 1 girl shrugs off her own bag and charges after him; this time she won’t be so eager to let him get away from her.

Now it’s James’ turn while Tech has their attention. He had circled around to the side as much as he could before he breaks out of the tree line and dashes into the clearing. He’s not as nimble as Tech, but he’s damned fast. He maneuvers around the District 1 male’s sword easily enough and grabs his bag off the table. For a fraction of a second, he hesitates, and I know he’s thinking about the food that’s laid out in front of him. But the moment passes, and he’s running. The District 1 male, Lucky, runs after him.

And Artemis . . . she just laughs for a moment, and then she trots off to help her ally, Jewel, with Tech. The District 3 boy limps along, blood dripping from the knife wound in his leg. Jewel takes her time approaching him, relishing this moment.

Artemis runs up behind them.

“Hey, Jewel,” she says.

And when the District 1 girl turns around, Artemis slashes the girl’s throat with a knife of her own.

Jewel’s eyes widen with surprise and her hands clutch at the gaping wound in her neck. She tries to speak but falls on the ground instead. The cannon booms as the snow soaks up the warm blood.

Tech whimpers, but Artemis pays him no heed as she turns and dashes off towards James and Lucky who are in a pretty heated fistfight. James has disarmed the District 1 male (unfortunately they didn’t show us how since the camera was on the other three at the time), and the two of them roll around in the snow exchanging punches.

Artemis approaches and kicks Lucky off of James. James scrambles backwards, but instead of going after him, Artemis turns to her ally and slashes his throat as well. My tribute stares at the girl for several long seconds as Artemis watches Lucky bleed out. When the cannon booms, however, James jumps to his feet, grabs the D5 bag, and runs. He doesn’t look back as he breaks into the forest.

However Artemis seems to have no intention of following either him or Tech. Instead she turns back to the table, rifles through all three bags—hers and both from District 1—and fills one bag as much as she can carry with supplies, various foods, and bottled waters.

Then she, like the other two remaining tributes, leaves the feast, the bodies of her two allies lifeless in the red-soaked snow.

“Damn,” Iset breathes.

I couldn’t agree with her more.

Artemis had no chance against the other two Careers. They weren’t the best at survival skills or hunting tributes, but they’ve trained with their weapons their whole lives. She couldn’t have handled both at once, so she took the only route that she could in order to ensure that she killed both with minimal damage to herself. And then she casually collected the supplies she needed.

I might not understand why Artemis was so willing to go to the Hunger Games, but I know that she was born for this. She spent her entire life training to be here, and she thrives in this environment. If she’s the victor—

_If she’s the victor, it means that James is dead. I can’t think about it. I can’t._

And I can’t think about what will happen if James is the victor. . . .

I force myself to breathe.

“James did well,” Iset says carefully.

“Artemis did well,” I reply.

Not that James _didn’t_ do well, but he didn’t get the opportunity to show how ‘good’ he was by killing the District 1 male. Not that I think he needed that chance. He already showed that he could kill when he took on the District 2 male. There’s nothing he needs to prove right now, so I won’t complain that Artemis interrupted his fight. A black eye and a split lip are nothing in terms of the damage he could have endured from a fight, even if he won.

“We are down to our top three tributes,” comes the voice of Caligula. “This is so exciting, isn’t it, Janice?”

“What a show the District 2 girl gave us,” the announcer replies. “I think she might be our victor.”

“But we can’t count out Tech and James, can we?” Caligula replies. “Both of them handled that feast very well.”

“You’re definitely right, Caligula,” she says. “We’ve already seen how quickly both Tech and James can move. What we haven’t seen, though, is how Tech will fare in a fight. We’ve already seen James battle a Career—and win—but Tech hasn’t shown us. . . .”

I tune them out as they go on about the District 3 boy to discuss how good he will or won’t be when it comes down to a fight. This late in the Hunger Games, you’re going to have to fight to get out of the arena. There have been very few exceptions to this, flukes more than anything, that have allowed tributes to leave the arena alive without a true final battle. The Gamemakers don’t like this scenario, though, so they will do whatever they can to make sure that the audience gets what they want to see.

Three tributes left. The District 3 boy is injured. I almost don’t want to count him, but I know on a terribly personal level that injuries, no matter how bad, don’t necessarily count out a tribute. Still, only three. . . .

“Iset, I need to go back to the Training Center,” I say.

“Why?” she asks.

“I just have to check up on things,” I tell her. And get away from you, I want to add, but I keep it to myself. Iset isn’t the worst person to be around (as she so nicely pointed out yesterday) but that doesn’t mean I want to be around her against my will, held captive for days on end. Sure, if I go back to the Training Center, I won’t be doing much of anything, but at least I could have room to breathe. “Please?”

She laughs for a second, but cuts it off almost immediately. When she speaks, there’s no hint of humor.

“You’re really that scared?” she asks. “You’re that afraid to go against me if I say no?”

“Iset—” I start.

“You know, I haven’t been around many victors,” she says. “Oh, I’ve met many over the years at parties and such, but Dad always forbade me from spending too much time with any victor. Then there was Solar, who we met through a friend and have spent time with the past couple years. She almost never goes to the Training Center and, well, she’s so different from you.”

I’m not sure where she’s going with this. Her hand still grasps mine, and she fidgets with my fingers. I am very different from Solar, true, but Iset doesn’t even know half of it. She doesn’t know how shitty of a person Solar really is. All she gets is whatever persona my former mentor projects to her which is very different from the truth I’ve dealt with on a personal level.

“They have you trained, don’t they?” she goes on. “I know that they killed your family for something or another, but you’re just so damned _scared_ to do anything that might upset me, aren’t you? That if you don’t do what I want that I’ll have your wife killed? Here I thought you were humoring me as a favor or something, but you’re just terrified.”

I don’t even know how to respond to that. Of course I’m terrified. I’m completely freaked out that if I step out of line someone—Marie, my brother, my grandfather— _someone_ will die. The Capitol has killed for dumber reasons than going against one of their precious citizen’s wishes. I’m not sure how to convey this to Iset or even if I want to. This is part of being a victor, and she’s gotten the entirely wrong impression from associating with Solar. Solar who, unlike any other victor, seems to enjoy mingling with the Capitol crowd. Hell, she’s probably more Capitolite than many of the actual Capitol citizens. But Iset wouldn’t know that if that’s the only victor she’s ever spent time with outside of a party.

My heart thumps in my chest. My grip on Iset’s hand tightens before I can stop myself.

She laughs again, this time without humor. “I honestly thought that you were using me because—” she catches herself, hesitates, and then continues, “Because I’m using you. But you’re here only because you’re afraid of the repercussions if you say no.”

I want to make some sort of sarcastic comment about her astuteness, but instead all I manage to say is, “You’re using me?”

Of course she is. She’s taking advantage of my position. She might have been under the impression that I was _choosing_ to be with her in order to further my tribute’s prospects, not that I was too scared of whatever punishment would befall me should I leave her, but she was still continuing this ‘relationship’ knowing that I was doing it out of necessity and she was doing it out of pleasure.

“Figures. Daughter of a gamemaker,” she says without acknowledging what I said, somewhat lost within her own head. “If people aren’t trying to butter me up to further their status, they’re entirely freaked out by me. Ugh.”

I fumble for something to say to her, but everything falls flat. Should I really comfort this girl who has forced me into some very undesired situations even if her interpretation was flawed? I just want to leave here right this moment, and yet I know that even if she now understands that my ‘consent’ to this situation was out of pure survival, I have to proceed carefully. She still has power to get me in trouble; whether she’d use it or not is something I won’t risk. Yet I can’t lie and say that being with her isn’t bad or that I’m okay spending time here, and for that reason I struggle to find words.

“Go to the Training Center,” she says. “But come back here tonight? I-I think there might be a party, and it would be good for James if you—”

“Sure,” I say before she has to stammer out anything else. My fingers leave hers, and I pat around the side of the couch until I find my cane. I feel heavy still, which means that at least I don’t have to slow down my movements so I don’t appear eager to leave. It takes great effort to stand up, and Iset does the same as well. She accompanies me to the bedroom where I find my shoes and try to make myself somewhat presentable like I haven’t spent the last several days in someone else’s bed. She assures me that I look fine, but there’s a strange desperation in her voice.

When I get to the front door, I pause and say, “I’ll be back tonight. Text me when you find out more about the party.”

My words seem to perk her up, if only a little, and she kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll see you later, Elijah,” she says.

I nod. I might be free right now for the next couple hours, but I will never be free from her entirely. Not until the Hunger Games end, and maybe not even then. Some victors find themselves in the ‘company’ of certain Capitol citizens for months, maybe years. I can’t really afford to think about that right now, and the thought falls flat inside me. I step outside and she closes the door quietly.

As the cab takes me back to the Training Center, I check my phone for any updates in the arena. Before I get that far, however, I realize that I have a missed call, and it’s not from Solar.

It’s Ferrer, and the message is simple: _Where are you?_


	46. Chapter 46

Before I go to the mentoring room, I stop by my apartment to pull myself together. A good chunk of my clothes are ‘missing,’ but there’s still plenty to wear. I take several minutes just to do nothing, and I’d do this all day if it weren’t for the hum in the back of my head telling me that Ferrer doesn’t just text me for no reason. So I push myself onward and go to the mentoring room.

The place echoes with emptiness. Although I can’t take a proper census, I’m guessing that only Ferrer and Gamma remain, and neither of them (nor anyone else who might be present), speaks or makes any noise to show that they’re alive. I stand dumbly in the doorway for several long moments before stepping into the room.

The moment that I do, however, Ferrer hones in on me. I hear his chair roll back and then footsteps approach. He doesn’t even greet me as he grabs onto my shoulder and half-shoves me out into the hallway.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

“That’s what I wanted to ask _you_ ,” he says. Now he no longer handles me quite so roughly, but he’s still guiding me away from the mentoring room. “I don’t see you for days on end, and then I get a call from Harmony this morning asking if I knew where you were because you didn’t show up to your session. So I go to check on you and you’re not answering your door, and I’m told by an avox that you aren’t even living there anymore.”

Oh.

Yeah, I guess I can see that as a cause for concern.

I pull away from Ferrer and come to a stop. Pressing my back against the wall, I tap my cane against the floor and think about what the hell I’m supposed to say to get out of this. I don’t need Ferrer worrying about me; that’s just another added pressure to keep him from freaking out because I’m not doing whatever I’m ‘supposed’ to be doing. I have too much to think about. I can’t think about him. God, that sounds heartless. But I can’t.

“Elijah?” Ferrer asks after a moment. “Would you like fresh air?”

I nod, and he starts walking again, so I follow. At the end of the hallway is a doorway; we step outside onto a balcony. How many stories up are we? Does it even matter? We immediately gravitate towards the railing where the wind is more likely to carry our words away from whatever ears listen in. I focus on it and allow myself to feel the chilly bite against my skin.

“Solar introduced me to some of her friends,” I say after a minute, turning partly to Ferrer. “When James and Maggie allied, I called her and she refused to come to the Training Center, so I went to wherever she was.”

So much for not wanting Ferrer to worry about me. It’s not too late to feed him a lie, I tell myself, but I also know that I don’t have the strength or the interest to construct one right now. So I go on.

“One of her friends took interest in me, and that’s where I have been since.”

“And you missed your therapy appointment without telling Harmony because . . . ?” Ferrer prompts.

I shake my head. “Because honestly, I don’t give a shit,” I answer. “This girl won’t let me out of her sights, and I don’t want to be caught in public with her. If she’s not going to let me return to the Training Center to mentor my tribute, then I’m not going to beg her to let me go to therapy. That’s kind of the least of my issues right now.”

That and the fact that I outright forgot. But I don’t think I really want to get into the fact that I can’t manage to perform more than one task at a time because I can’t even _think_ about more than one thing at a time. Therapy wasn’t the priority, so it didn’t get its allocated brain space.

“At least call Harmony and—”

“I don’t think you understand,” I cut him off sharply, my voice low and cold. “I’m literally fucking the daughter of a gamemaker in order to keep my tribute alive, and that’s not even the most messed up thing that’s happened to me in the past few days. Some of these sponsors are really screwed up. I mean screwed up well beyond what I thought someone could be because there are things going on that are definitely not legal and I’m just supposed to go along with it without complaint. I am not exaggerating when I say that going to therapy is the absolutely last thing on my priority list.”

“Shit. Okay,” Ferrer replies. He pauses, no doubt thinking about whatever limited options there are in this situation.

“Oh, also, I’m clinically depressed,” I add. “Anything else you want to know?”

“I want to know how you’re planning on getting through this without help,” he answers carefully as he treads into the nightmare that is my life.

I grasp onto the railing and turn away from him. For that, I don’t have an answer. At least not a productive one.

“Sure, why don’t you send Harmony over to this girl’s house since she normally won’t let me leave her place without her,” I say. “Maybe he can have dinner with us and with her rapist brother, too.”

“If I were to call Harmony for you right now, do you think you could have a session with him while this girl thinks you’re here at the Training Center?” Ferrer asks.

“Physically? Sure. Mentally? I don’t want to go,” I say. “I’m tired of being told that things will get better and then being fed all sorts of generic crap about how I’m supposed to do whatever breathing exercises and healthy eating is necessary to deal with my situation. A situation that I cannot get out of, mind you, so it’s not like therapy is really going to do anything but draw attention to the fact that I _can’t_ fix what really needs to be fixed.”

“I will call Harmony and let him know that I found you and you forgot to call to tell him you wouldn’t be able to make it,” Ferrer responds. “And then we’ll think about ways to remedy your situation.”

“We are in the last leg of the Hunger Games, damn it,” I snap. “Focus on your tribute, not on me.”

Without waiting for him to give some sort of half-assed solution to that, I push myself away from the railing and fumble my way back towards the door. He doesn’t try to catch up with me as I leave. I listen to my own footfalls through the hallway as I bypass the mentoring room door and head to the elevator. My blood pounds through my ears and I can barely focus on anything more than my own anger.

Anger? Why the hell am I angry? Because Ferrer is trying to help me? Because Harmony is well-meaning but completely out of his element? Because people are concerned about me?

Hell if I know.

I slam my palm against the button to call the elevator, and I wait but a few seconds before it arrives. When I step in and the doors close behind me, I tell myself that I need to pull myself together. I plead to at least _look_ normal and not as completely out of control as I feel. The breathing exercises stabilize me just enough that I’m able to make it back to my apartment where I convince myself to change into exercise clothes. As I slog through the motions, I haphazardly cast my current wardrobe to the side without caring where it falls. I don’t live here in the Training Center anymore, so it’s not like I have to worry about tripping over my own belongings.

By the time I reach the exercise room, I’ve cooled off enough that I can feel the emptiness slipping back into place within me to replacing the waning agitation. Because for whatever reason, I can only have one or the other and nothing in between. I try to reroute my attention to the task at hand. The exercise room is a decent size, though I haven’t ventured into any region except where the treadmills are. My body finds its way in their general direction without my brain to guide it, and I’m about to step onto a treadmill when I hear the sounds of someone crying.

Ah, shit, what next?

I pause and listen again. Whoever is crying tries to mute their noises, but it’s too late. I wonder if the exercise room is so infrequently used that avoxes come here to cry quietly to themselves on their breaks.

“Who’s there?” I ask.

The crier sniffles and then comes a voice: “I’m so sorry. I d-didn’t mean to d-disturb you. I-I’ll be quieter.”

The District 1 girl, Isolde.

“You plan to sit here and cry why I exercise?” I ask skeptically.

“If th-that won’t d-disturb you,” she answers.

Why the hell would a District 1 victor choose the exercise room of all places to have a breakdown? And _why_ is she having a breakdown to begin with?

_Her tribute just died, and she’s having a breakdown here because she can’t have one in her apartment where she’s supposed to be happy about the Hunger Games regardless of outcome. Shit, Elijah, think about someone besides yourself for once._

I follow the sound of the crying towards the far wall of the exercise room, only bumping into two machines in the process. One of the absolutely worst sounds is crying. I get that it’s a completely normal human function, but it’s just so fundamentally disgusting with the blubbering and mucous and incoherency. Something I never gave two shits about when I could still see, but now that I have one fewer sense, I can’t help but notice the noise in excruciating detail.

And now that I’m standing here in front of her, what did I hope to accomplish? Tell her that I’m sorry her tribute died? I’m not, and the expression is so overused that she’s probably heard it two dozen times in the hour or two since the feast ended.

“C’mon, let’s go run,” I say. “Blow your nose first so you can breathe.”

Isolde snuffles and snorts and blows her nose and whatever else, but I turn from her and head back to my treadmill. Without waiting for her to catch up (if she is even going to catch up at all), I turn on my treadmill, choose my settings, and begin at a walk. By the time I’m at a slow jog, Isolde is on the machine next to me.

For the next hour, the two of us run. We say nothing to each other. We don’t turn on the television. We just disappear into our own worlds and run until we’re too exhausted to keep going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst


	47. Chapter 47

The party is loud, chaotic, and distasteful. This isn’t one of the ‘elegant’ soirees of the upper class; no, this is definitely a party hosted by undergraduate students who are just looking for an excuse to get intoxicated regardless of the reason. Why in heaven’s name Iset decided that this was a great place for us to hang out, I don’t know, but I really question her judgement at this point.

And I question her judgement even more when I have to remove the third beer from her hand and remind her that I can’t watch out for her because I literally cannot see. She just clings to my arm and laughs and tells me that I need to relax and enjoy myself. I don’t even bother battling with the pounding music to explain to her that my tribute is still alive and I really shouldn’t be here right now, ‘fun’ or not.

“ISET!” someone shouts above the ruckus. I can barely pick out the cry above the cacophony.

The person repeats her name two or three more times before I give Iset a shake and say, “Someone is calling for you.”

She laughs and I am fairly confident that she’s grabbed another beer because she’s slurping down a beverage of some sort and the alcohol is pungent as ever on her breath. She pulls me in the general direction of the voice, and we have to push through the crowd of sweaty bodies to find whoever it’s attached to.

“Rameses!” she calls out, the music carrying away her voice.

Oh, great. I brace myself for this conversation, though I suddenly wonder if Lady is here, too, or if she is no longer subjected to being with him now that her tribute is dead. If she could barely handle the party at Iset and Rameses’ place, I can only imagine how she’d manage to get through something like this.

Iset and her brother immediately launch into banter, and other voices join in as well. Over the din, she shouts out introductions; I catch absolutely none of the names and don’t care.

“Well, well, looks like you two are having fun,” Rameses says to us knowingly. He has to shout to be heard, and the stench of alcohol is powerful.

Iset laughs and twists her fingers into my arm. “If Elijah weren’t watching my alcohol intake so closely,” she says. “I can handle more than one beer, you know?”

If the others think that she’s only one beer into the evening, they’re absolute morons. But someone tells Iset that they’ll get her another drink, and within moments she’s laughing again and thanking them. She’s quiet for another moment, and another person whistles and tells her that she can chug beer better than most guys they know. She belches to that and laughs again, which earns her a few high-fives from some of the other party-goers.

“Where’s Lady?” I ask Rameses.

“Ah, well, you know how bitches are,” he answers.

“No, actually, I don’t,” I reply sharply.

“She dropped me as soon as her tribute died,” he goes on casually as though he didn’t lose interest in her when she was no longer popular.

“That’s too bad,” I answer, my words without a drop of sympathy. Damn him for talking about Lady like that. After he forced her to be with him. After he—No, I need to keep myself under control. I focus on Iset’s fingers on my skin and try to detach myself from Lady and Rameses.

“Iset’s had a bit to drink. . . . You better not let anything happen to my sister,” he warns me. His own words are heavy with alcohol but the threat is not dampened by his drink.

“Noted,” I respond dryly.

“Elijah Asher of District 5!” someone calls out, relieving me of the increasing pressure of this conversation with Rameses. “What a pleasure!”

And then there are more introductions, and I swear that I’ve already been introduced to some of these people. Iset is not the only one here who should have laid off the drinks a few glasses ago, but nobody seems to care and they just carry on with conversation as usual.

“I thought you’re married,” says someone to me.

“I am,” I answer.

“But you’re here with Iset. . . ?”

“Only as a friend,” I reply carefully.

And then what follows is a string of crude comments about Iset from a couple of the people there. I might not like her, but I bristle at the remarks regardless. Such tasteless pricks. Yet I have no desire to come to blows with a bunch of drunk assholes, so I nudge Iset to the side and lead her away mid ‘conversation.’ Iset staggers along with me and we find even more people for her to drunkenly introduce me to. My head throbs with the pulse of the music, and I don’t know how much longer of this I can take.

“Your tribute is pretty cool,” somebody says to me, and it might be the most positive thing I’ve heard about James so far. If I weren’t so distracted by, well, _everything_ , I might be more receptive of this attention. But instead I just acknowledge the person with a ‘thank you’ and move on as I’m dragged into other conversations. Some people want to talk about the Hunger Games, some want to comment on Iset and me, some are just so damned wasted that they can’t even hold themselves up straight. As time goes on, the party smells less like beer and more like vomit which is nauseating in and of itself.

“Oh, Iset, who’s this with you?” comes another voice.

“This is Elijah!” she says a little too brightly. “From District 5.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Elijah,” says the voice with a touch of humor. “Did her father buy you for her?”

“Er, well, no,” I answer haltingly, completely caught off guard with that question. But the person just laughs and calls out for somebody nearby to grab another drink, and then they disappear into the chaos.

This is almost worse than all those other damned parties I’ve been to. Almost. Because at least these people are too drunk to remember everything that happened and hopefully many of the conversations I’ve heard or been a part of will be lost in their hangovers.

I keep waiting for Iset to tell me that it’s time to leave, but I realize that she’s been drinking this entire time and probably lost all sense of judgement. At very least, she hasn’t tried to leave my side, so at least I don’t have to play the role of nanny. But when somebody gives her another beer and tells her to chug it but she spills it on the floor instead, I know I have to cut her off.

“Let’s go back home,” I say to her. She protests at first, but when I start moving through the throng of people towards the door, always keeping a firm grasp on her so we can’t become separated, she no longer fights me on the matter.

The cool air greets us the moment we step outside, and immediately I’m aware of how much I’m sweating from the stuffy, claustrophobic party. I wipe sweat off my forehead and lead Iset towards the sidewalk where we wait for a cab. I can finally breathe, if only slightly, now that I am no longer stifled within the house packed with far too many people. Even returning to Iset’s house, prison that it is, sounds far more appealing than spending another minute here.

“Are you alright?” I ask Iset when she slumps over on me.

“Mmmhmm,” she responds. I can’t even tell if she understood what I was saying. Damn she’s wasted.

When the cab comes, I open the door and help her inside before climbing in after her. She’s too drunk to buckle herself in, so I lean over and fumble around to find the ends and click them into place. The car lurches forward before I have a chance to secure myself in.

I manage to get myself all situated when suddenly Iset starts sobbing. Damnit, not _another_ person crying on me. That’s twice in one day and I don’t think I can deal with this emotional shit anymore. Then again, maybe my own hollow state means that I am in the perfect place to handle everything without letting it get personal.

“What’s wrong, Iset?” I ask, not bothering to mask my irritation. Again, she’s drunk; it’s not like she’s going to remember that I wasn’t super friendly when trying to console her in her alcohol-induced hysteria.

She sniffles and manages to rein in her tears pretty damned well for someone who is drunk. But she doesn’t answer my question. Fine.

When the cab stops in front of her place, I once again help her out of the car and then up the walkway towards her apartment. She has ceased crying, but I can still hear her struggling to control herself. It’s not until we’re in her entryway that she bursts into uncontrolled tears.

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” I say to her.

“I’m not tired,” she protests.

“No, you’re completely wasted,” I answer, nudging her towards her bedroom.

“I’m not drunk at all,” she replies.

“Right,” I answer because nobody who is ever drunk would ever say that they weren’t drunk.

“I mean it, I’m really not drunk,” she says between snuffles. “Excuse me.”

And then she moves away from me with surprising grace and vanishes from the entryway towards her bedroom. Confused, I stand there and listen to see if she’s going to tumble into something or trip over her own feet. But she doesn’t, and I slowly trail after her. I pause in the doorway; she’s already in the bathroom, and the door closes with a thump.

Strange. . . .

I head back to the kitchen. Although I’m not well-versed with the layout, I’ve listened to Iset move around through here often enough that it doesn’t take too long before I figure out where the glasses are. I have no idea what’s in her fridge, so I just fill up the glass at the sink and head back to her bedroom.

“Iset?” I ask. My fist raps against the bathroom door.

The door opens and she sniffles. I thrust the glass of water at her. She mumbles a thanks.

“So you were pretending to be drunk and then started crying why?” I dare to ask, not sure if I really want to know the answer.

“Everyone’s drinking,” she says. “If you don’t drink, people think you’re not cool which I _know_ is stupid, but it still sucks if you get a reputation for being the one who doesn’t drink. Word gets around and, well, yeah.”

“Ah, popularity contests,” I say. “Not really a reason to let it bother you, though.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s—” She sighs and then takes my hand and drags me towards the bed. But instead of insisting we crawl into the sheets, she has us sit down at the foot. The mattress dips slightly under our weight. She squeezes my fingers once we’re situated and continues, “You heard my friends.”

“Your friends?” I ask. “There were so many people, I don’t know which ones were you friends.”

“The ones commenting on how easy I am,” she responds sharply. “And the ones saying that I’m a slut. You know that they don’t say that shit about Rameses and if anyone is a slut, it’s him?”

Damn, those were her friends? Cold.

But at the same time . . . she hasn’t exactly been the model citizen around me, either. So is there any reason that I should feel sorry for her?

And yet I ultimately do. Because I’m a fool, I suppose. Or maybe because her hand is in mind and her fingers are moving across my skin and it’s the closest thing to companionship I’ve had in the past few weeks and I’m aching with loneliness, I realize suddenly. I miss Marie and—and it doesn’t matter. I’m here and I can’t change that no matter how this Hunger Games unfolds; I’m stuck in the Capitol until the Presentation of the Victor, at the earliest.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You shouldn’t be,” she answers coldly. “Not after what I’m doing to you.”

“What are you doing to me?” I ask.

“I’m using you, I told you,” she says.

My stomach twists. “To what end?”

“To make me more popular,” she answers simply.

“Is it working?” I ask. Because it sure as hell doesn’t seem to be working to me. Then again, I also am not trying to win the favor of drunk college students; I wouldn’t even know where to begin with that since that stage of my life was ripped away from me before it even had a chance to begin.

“I guess we’ll find out,” she says.

“Alright, well . . . I need to take a shower,” I answer.

“Me too. We can take one together,” she suggests.

“You sure you’re not drunk?” I ask her as I stand up.

She huffs but doesn’t respond. I grab my suitcase and drag it to the bathroom before she has a chance to come up with a good reply to that and force herself into the shower with me. Spending time in the bathroom is the only chance I get to be away from her; not only do I not want to shower with her, but I don’t want to give up this personal time.

The more time I spend with Iset, the crazier she becomes. And the strange part is that the weird possessive thing that she does isn’t the craziest part about her, either. Why the hell does she care what those assholes have to say about her? Yeah, I get it that what they said was pretty damned hurtful, but—

I stop my thoughts short as it occurs to me that were she in my position, were she a victor, she would be subjected to rude comments and worse on a routine basis and there would be absolutely nothing she could do about it. I might not have been called ‘easy’ or a slut (to the best of my knowledge) but there have been some pretty cruel things said about me anyhow. Damned good thing that she’s not in my position. And yet, just because she isn’t in my place, does that mean that she deserves to be ridiculed by her peers? Probably not, but who am I to say?

As I let the water flow over me, I wonder if I’m not getting too fond of her. Not romantically, but in some other way. Why do I really care about the things people say about her? I should be wanting to put as much distance between us as possible, and yet I’m not. Instead I’m trying to figure out to what extent I can console her without catering to her strange fantasies.


	48. Chapter 48

The ringing of my cell phone wakes me up in the morning of the tenth day. When I groggily answer it, the clipped, formal voice of a woman introduces herself before I even have a chance to comprehend what’s happening. She tells me matter-of-factly that they’ve located some of James’ family members. Further information will be texted to me at a later time. Then the woman tells me to have a good day (in a tone that very clearly indicates that she doesn’t care whether my day is good or not) and she hangs up.

“Everything alright?” Iset mumbles.

“Yeah, they found James’ family,” I answer. I drop the phone to my side and close my eyes. Too early to wake up. I check on James briefly, but he’s the same as he was yesterday. Fed, hydrated, and currently resting.

“Oh good,” she replies, but she’s already falling back asleep. I make myself comfortable against her and allow myself to succumb to sleep once more.

How long I sleep, I’m not certain, but Iset shakes me awake some time later. I blink and try to push back the haze that clings to my mind as she says my name. Finally I manage to prop myself up on my elbow.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I think there’s going to be a fight,” she replies.

She grabs my hand and presses something into my palm. As my fingers close around the item, I realize that they’re my headphones. I sit up all the way and fit the headphones into my ears and Iset turns up the television. As usual, I adjust my settings so that it matches with the television.

James is in the cave where he spent the better part of the night. Now that he’s rested, he explores it in more detail and finds moth-eaten bedding material on the cold floor, an old oil lamp, and a few odds and ends. But odds and ends are exactly what he needs. The bag he grabbed from the Cornucopia had food, water, and supplies to keep him from freezing, but it didn’t have anything that would help him get through a fight. This cave, on the other hand, has a few remnants of some sort of encampment. Nothing that most people would care much about, though as he manages to turn on the lamp and the light fills the small, dark space, his eyes land on a crowbar in a pile of rocks and broken wooden planks.

For a couple of minutes, he rifles through the stuff. The crowbar is his main weapon, but he also finds a piece of jagged glass which he wraps with some of the old fabric so it doesn’t slice through his pocket, and a wrench. Once he’s satisfied, he snuffs out the light and creeps towards the cave.

And now I can understand why Iset thought there would be a fight: Artemis is sleeping in a little shelter not too far from him, and she begins to stir. Whether James knows she’s there or not isn’t entirely clear, but certainly he knows that the final battle approaches—whether it’s in an hour or the next couple days, doesn’t matter—and he needs to be prepared. He adjusts his grip on the crowbar and allows his eyes to acclimate to the glare of the brilliant white snow. His fingers travel to the wrench that he tucked into his belt, and then he turns his attention back to his surroundings.

Artemis stirs in her sleep. She doesn’t appear to be aware that James is nearby, but she doesn’t waste time waking up. From the moment that her eyes open to when she’s ready to leave is no more than thirty seconds, though she pauses briefly to scarf down an energy bar before she heads out.

James finally creeps out of the cave and slips into the trees. But he hasn’t gone more than a few feet before he sees Artemis. And within a fraction of a second, Artemis has seen him, too. Although James grasps onto his crowbar, it’s no match for the poisoned darts that the District 2 girl has in her possession. She has the blowgun to her lips before he can even consider raising his weapon.

And, of course, there’s no way that he can escape something like ranged darts at this proximity.

“Really?” James asks sharply, his voice cutting through the cold stillness of the forest. “ _That’s_ how I’m going to die? A blowgun?”

Artemis hesitates.

She moves the gun away from her lips to say, “It’ll be fast and probably almost painless.”

“I want to fight,” James answers. “I don’t want to go out like that.”

Something in his words seems to speak to Artemis. She sees that it’s more than someone pleading for his life; he might not be able to choose whether he lives or dies, but he can at least decide in some capacity how he will meet his end. And Artemis, of course, respects that.

She grins at him.

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s go kill the District 3 kid, and then we can have a fight. But I swear that if you stab me in the back, you’ll never get out of the arena alive.”

And I know that she means it. I know that she will honor what she says and that she won’t be the one to turn on James should they break their brief alliance. My heart thumps hard; the end of the Hunger Games is in the immediate future. My tribute is in the top three. He may be able to get out of here alive. . . .

James shrugs. “Yeah, sure,” he answers. But as Artemis lowers the blowgun and tucks the dart back into the pouch at her waist, he moves closer to her so that they’re within a few strides of each other. “I last saw him down south from here. Near that open field but still in the forest.”

“Perfect,” Artemis says. “He’s been injured in his leg, so he won’t be able to move too quickly.”

Two against one, and that one person is injured. Not fair, but this time I can’t complain. It’s cruel, and yet it means that James will be one step closer to winning.

I break away from the television long enough to say, “Iset, I need to move. Can we go to the sitting room?”

“Of course,” she says. She already moving to the side of the bed, and I follow suit.

It’s the final battle; there’s no way I can watch it from this bed, of all places. I need to feel in control of _something_ in my life right now, and if that’s merely the room that I’m in and the clothing that I wear, then so be it. As James and Artemis stalk Tech, I change into fresh clothes, and Iset and I head out of the bedroom and into the sitting room where we take our usual seats on the couch.

Tech is indeed injured. The knife wound was deep and he pulled out the blade too soon without having a good way to manage the blood that flowed out from it. It’s weakened him, and he limps along in pain, each step with a grimace. I know that he has to die for James to win—I _know that_ —and yet I’m torn up at the thought of this kid being killed when he doesn’t have a chance in hell. James and Artemis easily pick up on his tracks. The uneven stride, occasionally tinged pink with drops of blood, can only belong to the injured tribute.

Artemis stops James and motions for him to break away from her and move off to the west a little. He nods and does as she instructs while she goes towards the east. And it’s in this manner that they can flank Tech without him realizing it. When they burst into a small clearing, one on either side of him, the kid curses and staggers backwards.

If he were in good shape, he might be able to outrun Artemis, but there’s no way he’d evade James. But that’s not even a consideration right now because with his injury, he will never get out of this little opening alive. I’m sure he knows it, but he pulls out his knife and looks first at one and then the other.

Yet the question remains: who will do the honors?

Artemis starts to move forward, but James jumps in and swings his crowbar down at the kid. Tech tries to dodge, and the crowbar strikes him in the shoulder. He yelps out, but James brings the crowbar down again, this time on his head. It takes several blows (all of which I can hear in excruciating detail) before the cannon fires.

James stands up and tries to wipe the blood off his hands onto his pants. But the material is slick rather than absorbent and it takes a few moments for him to wipe his palms enough that he can grip the crowbar without it slipping.

Then his eyes turn to Artemis who watches him with amusement.

“Nice job,” she says.

James grunts as a response.

“C’mon, let’s move so the hovercraft can clean this up,” she says to him, and he moves away from the body.

It’s just the two of them now. The final battle can start at any moment. Hell, it’s technically already started. But they don’t seem eager to rush into it. James needs to recover, if only a little, from what he just did, and Artemis wants something a little more scenic than fighting over a corpse. But before they leave the small clearing, she pulls the poison darts off her belt and tosses them and the blowgun onto the District 3 tribute’s body. Then the two of them walk away into the woods.


	49. Chapter 49

Victory is a terrible thing. When we’re in the arena, we want nothing more than to escape alive. We’ll do anything— _anything_ —to be the one whose name is announced at the end because after all the hunger and suffering and bloodshed we’ve experienced, we can’t fathom giving up. Little do we know what is in store for us afterwards. We think that the agony we endure in the arena is the end, but in reality it is only the beginning. From the moment we leave the arena, we will be plagued with nightmares. Our nights will be fraught with screams of the dead and dying. We will be reminded of all the crimes we’ve committed and all the ways we have failed. Year after year, we will mentor tributes knowing that they will never come back alive. Knowing that the things that we do to save them are all in vain. We give up pieces of ourselves to ensure that our tributes will be one step closer to victory, but in the end, it doesn’t matter when they fall under the blade anyhow. And we are left even more hollow and misshapen than ever.

Then why do we hope so much for victory for our tributes? Why do we wish the nightmares on these kids? We know full well that they, too, will be damned to an eternity of selling their souls bit by bit while they watch their own tributes die year after year. We know that they will be subjected to reality far worse than even their most horrifying nightmares. Intrusive interviews, scathing comments, unnecessary drama—these are just the kindest aspects of victory. But the deeper, more insidious things that are not easily seen by the naked eye . . . this is what destroys us. Watching our family members die. Whoring ourselves out to get our tributes another meal. Performing inhumane tasks in the hopes that we will be able to bring our kids home. And why? Why so that they, too, can turn around and do the same thing for another tribute the next year.

So why do we do this? Why don’t we accept that death is the better option?

It doesn’t matter why. All that matters is that despite knowing the consequences, we still lose ourselves in the endless hell that is mentoring. We don’t care that life after victory is not much of a life at all.

And, anyway, can I really make this decision for my tribute? Could I decide that he is better off dead than living the life of a victor?

I draw in a deep breath as I listen to James and Artemis walk through the forest in silence. Snow crunches underneath their boots. When he asked Artemis not to kill him with the poisoned arrows, James chose to fight. This decision he has made may very well be the last decision he will ever make regardless of the outcome of this finale. My body tenses and my stomach aches as though I have neglected something critical, but what else can I do? I mentored him, I sent him sponsorship gifts, I followed along with him as closely as I could. Still, my body tells me that it’s not enough, and it cramps with anxiety.

Iset’s takes my hand in hers, as usual, but she kneads it with uncharacteristic ferocity as her attention remains on the screen. The pressure is all that keeps me here in the present, and I hang onto it so that I won’t lose myself completely as I listen to James and Artemis trudge through the snow to find the place for their final battle. I can feel myself tightening my grip on Iset’s hand.

When they get to a large clearing that very well may have been made for this purpose, both tributes wordlessly shrug off their backpacks. This is it. This is the end of the Hunger Games, and they both know it. Bags are no longer needed, and they leave them behind in the cold snow at the base of a tree.

There is no way that this will lead to a happy ending. There cannot possibly be a good outcome from this regardless of who wins. Either James dies or Artemis dies, and neither of them deserve it. I might not agree with Artemis’ mindset, but that doesn’t mean that she has earned herself this fate. Does she know what comes after victory? Was that part of their Career training? Did Ferrer ever have to tell her about the things she’d be expected to do in order to bring another generation of murderers to fame? I greatly doubt that, and now she stakes her future on the lies she’s been told. She holds herself confidently and extends a hand for James. James takes it, and the two of them shake.

And what about James? He’s a good kid but it doesn’t matter. I’m beginning to understand now, to _really_ understand, that this isn’t about how good of a person somebody is. ‘Good people’ don’t make it out of the arena alive. You need to be a good _tribute_. You need to be willing to murder people at the gamemakers’ whim, and you have to know when to leave somebody behind to die a terrible death. And James is a good tribute. Because, see, he’s acquired himself a hefty list of things he’s done that will fuel his nightmares for the rest of his life, should he live to see another day, that is. And that’s what a good tribute does: you go through the arena collecting bits and pieces of things that will haunt you for the remainder of your days. Because that’s what makes you a victor. This collection of shit is vital to your future.

Now that the formalities are done, the two of them step away from each other. Artemis unsheathes her sword. James readies his crowbar. It doesn’t seem right that it’s a sword against a crowbar, but I also know that a sword would be nearly useless in James’ hands. The weapons that he has—a crowbar in his hand, a wrench in his belt, a shard of glass in his pocket—those are what suit him the best.

The two tributes stare at each other. Are they trying to figure out who should go first, or are they taking the last few gulps of air before they plunge into death? At last Artemis moves forward. The snow is thinner here, and her boots crunch against the thin sheet of white through which the tips of yellowed grasses are exposed. It will still be more difficult to move here than it would be on the naked earth, but it won’t be nearly as challenging as it has been the past few days. Yes, there’s no doubt that this place was made for a battle. Enough snow to soak up the blood but not enough to impair a good final fight.

Artemis moves in on James. She swings, and James dodges. Another swing, and another dodge.

When she swings the third time, James feigns a dodge, but this time he smashes her wrist with the crowbar. She yelps, not expecting the attack, and nearly loses her sword. James kicks her knee, and she falls to the ground.

Rather than going in for the kill, he allows her to stand up again. She gave him a second chance earlier, and now he returns the favor. She grins at him and adjusts the sword in her hands.

“That’s how you’re going to play?” she asks. “Then I guess I don’t have to be nice about this, either.”

Her sword juts forward and though James tries to move out of the way, it catches him in the arm. It’s his non-dominant arm, fortunately, but the blood pours freely from the gash. He clasps onto it, but the crowbar is still in his fingers and he’s not able to do much to stem the flow. Yet it’s only a small wound, all things considered, and he drops his hand away in order to return to his battle stance.

They aren’t equally matched. Artemis is better, and she lands a few more decent blows on him. They aren’t enough to incapacitate him, but over time they’ll weaken him to the point where he won’t be able to fight. Like Tech, he will not be able to defend himself when it’s most critical. Therefore it is vital that he find a way to disarm Artemis so that he can at least have a chance to win.

I hunch forward on the couch and close my eyes as though focusing on the words the narrator gives me will somehow better the odds. Iset releases my hand, but her fingers go to my back and I feel her pressing against me. Stabilizing me. I just need James to get through this. . . .

_But that means Artemis dies._

Guilt stabs me in the stomach. Another reminder that there is no winning. No, worse: that I can’t support my tribute because it means that this girl dies. Memories of Artemis coming to say goodbye the night before the Hunger Games begin to crawl up through my mind. But I don’t have _time_ for this, I tell myself. I can sort out my feelings after this battle. I don’t have time to deal with resurfacing memories right now.

Artemis’ sword slices into James’ thigh. He cries out and falls to the ground.

Iset gasps, and that noise is almost too much. Another noise—Iset’s murmuring, the hum of the refrigerator, a bird outside—and I might lose myself entirely. My chest tightens on the verge of panic and I can’t afford the energy to try to talk myself down. Instead I hang on and try to make it through this moment.

Artemis stands over James, sword out. She doesn’t make a show of it; there have been far too many tributes who have hesitated to deal the final blow and been killed as a result. The sword comes down, and James rolls out of the way just in time. He staggers to his feet, not looking down at the bloodstained snow beneath him, and tackles Artemis to the ground.

They fall into the snow and James wrenches the sword away from her and tosses it to the side. Artemis grabs out a knife, but he punches her full-force in the face before she can swing it. While she’s dazed, he brings down his crowbar onto her wrist. This time there’s a sharp snap and Artemis yells out. The knife falls limply from her hand. The girl curses him, and shoves him off.

Artemis’ eyes never leave James as she circles back towards the sword. Her wrist might be broken, but certainly as a trained Career she’s able to use weapons in both hands. James gasps for breath as the pain of his wounds begin to compound, but he pushes himself off the ground and limps in her direction.

 _You can do this, James. Please, do this._ I can’t think about what it means for him to win. But I can’t give up. I can’t let him go. I brace myself as the fight continues, willing myself to hang on.

The girl ducks down and grabs the sword up in her hand just as James throws himself on her. They once more fall into the snow, James on top of Artemis. Artemis knocks him in the head with the pommel of her sword which stuns James long enough for her to bring the sword around for a blow that rips across his chest. It’s not deep, but it doesn’t need to be. He falls off her and lays down in the snow again.

Artemis gasps for breath but she readies the sword.

James no longer has the strength to throw a punch or to grab up his crowbar. His fingers fumble for his pocket. It appears that he’s given up, but he hasn’t. He pauses, and withdraws a small piece of glass from the fabric. The glass glints in the morning light, but Artemis doesn’t see it in time.

Using what must be his last burst of adrenaline, James sits up and rams the shard of glass into Artemis’ neck before he collapses back to the ground, chest heaving.

Artemis sits there stunned. Her face pales and her eyes grow dim. There’s no way she can recover from a wound like this, and she must know it. Her fingers slacken on the hilt of her weapon, and the sword drops from her grasp. Her trembling, bloodstained hand goes towards the fragment that juts from her flesh as her eyes shift towards James. Neither she nor James move as they stare at each other, both existing in a separate world from the rest of us as they come to terms with reality. In that moment, they must both see that James has won. A small smile crosses Artemis’ face. Her fingers move across the glass. With one swift movement, she pulls the jagged shard out of her neck, blood spurting out from the wound. She falls in the snow and lies motionless forever.

A cannon booms.

“I am proud to present the victor of the 136th Hunger Games, James Faraday of District 5!”

James exhales. He lay next to Artemis, blood seeping from his wounds. His eyes begin to lose their luster as he watches the hovercraft appear in the sky above him.

Iset is saying something, but I can’t hear her. I focus on the sound of James’ heartbeat to make sure that he’s still alive, only to discover that the heartbeat is not his but my own. I’ve been holding my breath without meaning to, and the moment that I let it out, everything begins to collapse in on itself.

Ten days in the arena, and James won. I listen to the announcers say that he’s being evacuated for surgery; the world around me implodes. My body grows smaller and smaller as it folds into nothingness. _I should be happy._ I should be. But instead my head grows light, and I struggle to remain in control of myself.

My tribute won.

_And Artemis died._

Oh, God, Artemis! Why did you do this to yourself? Why did you sign up for this?! You had so many years ahead of you!

_Why, damn it?!_

My lungs no longer exist. Neither does my brain or my chest or, well, anything. I am gone, vanished into the void that has been threatening to claim me for weeks now. I am nothing.

And I think, _This is why we do it. We play their games and live hollow lives so that maybe, just maybe, we can one day have a victorious tribute. Even if it’s at the expense of everyone else._

I give into the panic that I’ve barely kept at bay, and I slip into unconsciousness.


End file.
